Best Famous Kingship Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Kingship poems. This is a select list of the best famous Kingship poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Kingship poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of kingship poems.

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• All Famous Kingship Poems

Written by Robert Burns | 112. A Dream GUID-MORNIN’ to our Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses On ev’ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes. My bardship here, at your Levee On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day. I see ye’re complimented thrang, By mony a lord an’ lady; “God save the King” ’s a cuckoo sang That’s unco easy said aye: The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d an’ ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch’s face Ev’n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your Grace, Your Kingship to bespatter; There’s mony waur been o’ the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. ’Tis very true, my sovereign King, My skill may weel be doubted; But facts are chiels that winna ding, An’ downa be disputed: Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e’en right reft and clouted, And now the third part o’ the string, An’ less, will gang aboot it Than did ae day. 1 Far be’t frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation: But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye’ve trusted ministration To chaps wha in barn or byre Wad better fill’d their station Than courts yon day. And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister, Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank God, my life’s a lease, Nae bargain wearin’ faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I’ the craft some day. I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, An’ lessen a’ your charges; But, God-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonie barges An’boats this day. Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An’ may ye rax Corruption’s neck, And gie her for dissection! But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, wi’ due respect, May fealty an’ subjection This great birth-day. Hail, Majesty most Excellent! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment, A simple poet gies ye? Thae bonie bairntime, Heav’n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young Potentate o’Wales, I tell your highness fairly, Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails, I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An’ curse your folly sairly, That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales, Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowt’s been known, To mak a noble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill the throne, For a’their clish-ma-claver: There, him 2 at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver: And yet, wi’ funny, ***** Sir John, 3 He was an unco shaver For mony a day. For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho’ a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog, That bears the keys of Peter, Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug, Or trowth, ye’ll stain the mitre Some luckless day! Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn, Ye’ve lately come athwart her— A glorious galley, 4 stem and stern, Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter; But first hang out, that she’ll discern, Your hymeneal charter; Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An’ large upon her quarter, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a’, Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav’n mak you guid as well as braw, An’ gie you lads a-plenty! But sneer na British boys awa! For kings are unco scant aye, An’ German gentles are but sma’, They’re better just than want aye On ony day. Gad bless you a’! consider now, Ye’re unco muckle dautit; But ere the course o’ life be through, It may be bitter sautit: An’ I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow’t at it. But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautit Fu’ clean that day. Note 1. The American colonies had recently been lost. [back] Note 2. King Henry V.—R. B. [back] Note 3. Sir John Falstaff, vid. Shakespeare.—R. B. [back] Note 4. Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor’s amour.—R. B. This was Prince William Henry, third son of George III, afterward King William IV. [back]

Written by Charles Kingsley | A Farewell I GO down from the hills half in gladness, and half with a pain I depart, Where the Mother with gentlest breathing made music on lip and in heart; For I know that my childhood is over: a call comes out of the vast, And the love that I had in the old time, like beauty in twilight, is past. I am fired by a Danaan whisper of battles afar in the world, And my thought is no longer of peace, for the banners in dream are unfurled, And I pass from the council of stars and of hills to a life that is new: And I bid to you stars and you mountains a tremulous long adieu. I will come once again as a master, who played here as child in my dawn I will enter the heart of the hills where the gods of the old world are gone. And will war like the bright Hound of Ulla with princes of earth and of sky. For my dream is to conquer the heavens and battle for kingship on high.

Written by Sylvia Plath | The Thin People They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen. They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice Under the meanest table. It was during the long hunger-battle They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later, Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses, But a thin silence. Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins, Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat. But so thin, So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims In the contracted country of the head Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared The moon to a rind of little light. Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color. They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship. How they prop each other up! We own no wilderness rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff Battalions. See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones.

Written by Sidney Lanier | Nirvana Through seas of dreams and seas of phantasies, Through seas of solitudes and vacancies, And through my Self, the deepest of the seas, I strive to thee, Nirvana. Oh long ago the billow-flow of sense, Aroused by passion's windy vehemence, Upbore me out of depths to heights intense, But not to thee, Nirvana. By waves swept on, I learned to ride the waves. I served my masters till I made them slaves. I baffled Death by hiding in his graves, His watery graves, Nirvana. And once I clomb a mountain's stony crown And stood, and smiled no smile and frowned no frown, Nor ate, nor drank, nor slept, nor faltered down, Five days and nights, Nirvana. Sunrise and noon and sunset and strange night And shadow of large clouds and faint starlight And lonesome Terror stalking round the height, I minded not, Nirvana. The silence ground my soul keen like a spear. My bare thought, whetted as a sword, cut sheer Through time and life and flesh and death, to clear My way unto Nirvana. I slew gross bodies of old ethnic hates That stirred long race-wars betwixt States and States. I stood and scorned these foolish dead debates, Calmly, calmly, Nirvana. I smote away the filmy base of Caste. I thrust through antique blood and riches vast, And all big claims of the pretentious Past That hindered my Nirvana. Then all fair types, of form and sound and hue, Up-floated round my sense and charmed anew. -- I waved them back into the void blue: I love them not, Nirvana. And all outrageous ugliness of time, Excess and Blasphemy and squinting Crime Beset me, but I kept my calm sublime: I hate them not, Nirvana. High on the topmost thrilling of the surge I saw, afar, two hosts to battle urge. The widows of the victors sang a dirge, But I wept not, Nirvana. I saw two lovers sitting on a star. He kissed her lip, she kissed his battle-scar. They quarrelled soon, and went two ways, afar. O Life! I laughed, Nirvana. And never a king but had some king above, And never a law to right the wrongs of Love, And ever a fanged snake beneath a dove, Saw I on earth, Nirvana. But I, with kingship over kings, am free. I love not, hate not: right and wrong agree: And fangs of snakes and lures of doves to me Are vain, are vain, Nirvana. So by mine inner contemplation long, By thoughts that need no speech nor oath nor song, My spirit soars above the motley throng Of days and nights, Nirvana. O Suns, O Rains, O Day and Night, O Chance, O Time besprent with seven-hued circumstance, I float above ye all into the trance That draws me nigh Nirvana. Gods of small worlds, ye little Deities Of humble Heavens under my large skies, And Governor-Spirits, all, I rise, I rise, I rise into Nirvana. The storms of Self below me rage and die. On the still bosom of mine ecstasy, A lotus on a lake of balm, I lie Forever in Nirvana.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Servant When He Reigneth Three things make earth unquiet And four she cannot brook The godly Agur counted them And put them in a book -- Those Four Tremendous Curses With which mankind is cursed; But a Servant when He Reigneth Old Agur entered first. An Handmaid that is Mistress We need not call upon. A Fool when he is full of Meat Will fall asleep anon. An Odious Woman Married May bear a babe and mend; But a Servant when He Reigneth Is Confusion to the end. His feet are swift to tumult, His hands are slow to toil, His ears are deaf to reason, His lips are loud in broil. He knows no use for power Except to show his might. He gives no heed to judgment Unless it prove him right. Because he served a master Before his Kingship came, And hid in all disaster Behind his master's name, So, when his Folly opens The unnecessary hells, A Servant when He Reigneth Throws the blame on some one else. His vows are lightly spoken, His faith is hard to bind, His trust is easy boken, He fears his fellow-kind. The nearest mob will move him To break the pledge he gave -- Oh, a Servant when he Reigneth Is more than ever slave!

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Anna Comnena In the prologue to her Alexiad, Anna Comnena laments her widowhood. Her soul is dizzy. "And with rivers of tears," she tells us "I wet my eyes... Alas for the waves" in her life, "alas for the revolts." Pain burns her "to the the bones and the marrow and the cleaving of the soul." But it seems the truth is, that this ambitious woman knew only one great sorrow; she only had one deep longing (though she does not admit it) this haughty Greek woman, that she was never able, despite all her dexterity, to acquire the Kingship; but it was taken almost out of her hands by the insolent John.