Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Molest Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Molest poems, articles about Molest poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Molest poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Thomas Gray | Create an image from this poem

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard

 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening-care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the Gates of Mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,— 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies would he rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him from the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— 
Approach and read, for thou can'st read, the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas Lamentation

 In those days the Evil Spirits,
All the Manitos of mischief,
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom,
And his love for Chibiabos,
Jealous of their faithful friendship,
And their noble words and actions,
Made at length a league against them,
To molest them and destroy them.
Hiawatha, wise and wary,
Often said to Chibiabos,
"O my brother! do not leave me,
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!"
Chibiabos, young and heedless,
Laughing shook his coal-black tresses,
Answered ever sweet and childlike,
"Do not fear for me, O brother!
Harm and evil come not near me!"
Once when Peboan, the Winter,
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water,
When the snow-flakes, whirling downward,
Hissed among the withered oak-leaves,
Changed the pine-trees into wigwams,
Covered all the earth with silence,
Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes,
Heeding not his brother's warning,
Fearing not the Evil Spirits,
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers
All alone went Chibiabos.
Right across the Big-Sea-Water
Sprang with speed the deer before him.
With the wind and snow he followed,
O'er the treacherous ice he followed,
Wild with all the fierce commotion
And the rapture of the hunting.
But beneath, the Evil Spirits
Lay in ambush, waiting for him,
Broke the treacherous ice beneath him,
Dragged him downward to the bottom,
Buried in the sand his body.
Unktahee, the god of water,
He the god of the Dacotahs,
Drowned him in the deep abysses
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee.
From the headlands Hiawatha
Sent forth such a wail of anguish,
Such a fearful lamentation,
That the bison paused to listen,
And the wolves howled from the prairies,
And the thunder in the distance
Starting answered "Baim-wawa!"
Then his face with black he painted,
With his robe his head he covered,
In his wigwam sat lamenting,
Seven long weeks he sat lamenting,
Uttering still this moan of sorrow:
"He is dead, the sweet musician!
He the sweetest of all singers!
He has gone from us forever,
He has moved a little nearer
To the Master of all music,
To the Master of all singing!
O my brother, Chibiabos!"
And the melancholy fir-trees
Waved their dark green fans above him,
Waved their purple cones above him,
Sighing with him to console him,
Mingling with his lamentation
Their complaining, their lamenting.
Came the Spring, and all the forest
Looked in vain for Chibiabos;
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha,
Sighed the rushes in the meadow.
From the tree-tops sang the bluebird,
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
He is dead, the sweet musician!"
From the wigwam sang the robin,
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
He is dead, the sweetest singer!"
And at night through all the forest
Went the whippoorwill complaining,
Wailing went the Wawonaissa,
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
He is dead, the sweet musician!
He the sweetest of all singers!"
Then the Medicine-men, the Medas,
The magicians, the Wabenos,
And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
Came to visit Hiawatha;
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,
To appease him, to console him,
Walked in silent, grave procession,
Bearing each a pouch of healing,
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter,
Filled with magic roots and simples,
Filled with very potent medicines.
When he heard their steps approaching~,
Hiawatha ceased lamenting,
Called no more on Chibiabos;
Naught he questioned, naught he answered,
But his mournful head uncovered,
From his face the mourning colors
Washed he slowly and in silence,
Slowly and in silence followed
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam.
There a magic drink they gave him,
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint,
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow,
Roots of power, and herbs of healing;
Beat their drums, and shook their rattles;
Chanted singly and in chorus,
Mystic songs like these, they chanted.
"I myself, myself! behold me!
`T Is the great Gray Eagle talking;
Come, ye white crows, come and hear him!
The loud-speaking thunder helps me;
All the unseen spirits help me;
I can hear their voices calling,
All around the sky I hear them!
I can blow you strong, my brother,
I can heal you, Hiawatha!"
"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
"Wayha-way!" the mystic chorus.
Friends of mine are all the serpents!
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk!
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him;
I can shoot your heart and kill it!
I can blow you strong, my brother,
I can heal you, Hiawatha !"
"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
"Wayhaway!" the mystic chorus.
"I myself, myself! the prophet!
When I speak the wigwam trembles,
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,
Hands unseen begin to shake it!
When I walk, the sky I tread on
Bends and makes a noise beneath me!
I can blow you strong, my brother!
Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!"
"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.
Then they shook their medicine-pouches
O'er the head of Hiawatha,
Danced their medicine-dance around him;
And upstarting wild and haggard,
Like a man from dreams awakened,
He was healed of all his madness.
As the clouds are swept from heaven,
Straightway from his brain departed
All his moody melancholy;
As the ice is swept from rivers,
Straightway from his heart departed
All his sorrow and affliction.
Then they summoned Chibiabos
From his grave beneath the waters,
From the sands of Gitche Gumee
Summoned Hiawatha's brother.
And so mighty was the magic
Of that cry and invocation,
That he heard it as he lay there
Underneath the Big-Sea-Water;
From the sand he rose and listened,
Heard the music and the singing,
Came, obedient to the summons,
To the doorway of the wigwam,
But to enter they forbade him.
Through a chink a coal they gave him,
Through the door a burning fire-brand;
Ruler in the Land of Spirits,
Ruler o'er the dead, they made him,
Telling him a fire to kindle
For all those that died thereafter,
Camp-fires for their night encampments
On their solitary journey
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the Hereafter.
From the village of his childhood,
From the homes of those who knew him,
Passing silent through the forest,
Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways,
Slowly vanished Chibiabos!
Where he passed, the branches moved not,
Where he trod, the grasses bent not,
And the fallen leaves of last year
Made no sound beneath his footstep.
Four whole days he journeyed onward
Down the pathway of the dead men;
On the dead-man's strawberry feasted,
Crossed the melancholy river,
On the swinging log he crossed it,
Came unto the Lake of Silver,
In the Stone Canoe was carried
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the land of ghosts and shadows.
On that journey, moving slowly,
Many weary spirits saw he,
Panting under heavy burdens,
Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows,
Robes of fur, and pots and kettles,
And with food that friends had given
For that solitary journey.
"Ay! why do the living," said they,
"Lay such heavy burdens on us!
Better were it to go naked,
Better were it to go fasting,
Than to bear such heavy burdens
On our long and weary journey!"
Forth then issued Hiawatha,
Wandered eastward, wandered westward,
Teaching men the use of simples
And the antidotes for poisons,
And the cure of all diseases.
Thus was first made known to mortals
All the mystery of Medamin,
All the sacred art of healing.
Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

To The Right Honourable William Earl Of Dartmouth His Majestys Principal Secretary Of The State For North-America

 HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,
Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,
While in thine hand with pleasure we behold
The silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold.
Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies
She shines supreme, while hated faction dies:
Soon as appear'd the Goddess long desir'd,
Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd;
Thus from the splendors of the morning light
The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain
Of wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain,
No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,
Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand
Had made, and with it meant t' enslave the land.
Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
Whence flow these wishes for the common good,
By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat:
What pangs excruciating must molest,
What sorrows labour in my parent's breast?
Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd
That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd:
Such, such my case. And can I then but pray
Others may never feel tyrannic sway?
For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,
And thee we ask thy favours to renew,
Since in thy pow'r, as in thy will before,
To sooth the griefs, which thou did'st once deplore.
May heav'nly grace the sacred sanction give
To all thy works, and thou for ever live
Not only on the wings of fleeting Fame,
Though praise immortal crowns the patriot's name,
But to conduct to heav'ns refulgent fane,
May fiery coursers sweep th' ethereal plain,
And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,
Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas Fasting

 You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest, 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumphs in the battle, 
And renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations.
First he built a lodge for fasting, 
Built a wigwam in the forest, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, 
In the Moon of Leaves he built it,
And, with dreams and visions many, 
Seven whole days and nights he fasted.
On the first day of his fasting 
Through the leafy woods he wandered; 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 
Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 
Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 
Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 
Building nests among the pinetrees, 
And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa, 
Flying to the fen-lands northward, 
Whirring, wailing far above him. 
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the next day of his fasting 
By the river's brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape.vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o'er the alder-branches, 
Filling all the air with fragrance! 
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered, 
By the still, transparent water; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, 
Scattering drops like beads of wampum, 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
And the herring, Okahahwis, 
And the Shawgashee, the crawfish!
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 
"Must our lives depend on these things?"
On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted; 
From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids, 
Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 
On the gleaming of the water, 
On the splendor of the sunset.
And he saw a youth approaching, 
Dressed in garments green and yellow, 
Coming through the purple twilight, 
Through the splendor of the sunset; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, 
And his hair was soft and golden.
Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 
On his wasted form and features, 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 
Said he, "O my Hiawatha! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven, 
For you pray not like the others; 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumph in the battle, 
Nor renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations.
"From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you, 
How by struggle and by labor 
You shall gain what you have prayed for. 
Rise up from your bed of branches, 
Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!"
Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches, 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre.
So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
And the more they strove and struggled, 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha; 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a scream of pain and famine.
"'T Is enough!" then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha,
"But tomorrow, when the sun sets, 
I will come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 
Only saw that he had vanished, 
Leaving him alone and fainting, 
With the misty lake below him, 
And the reeling stars above him.
On the morrow and the next day, 
When the sun through heaven descending, 
Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 
Fell into the western waters, 
Came Mondamin for the trial, 
For the strife with Hiawatha; 
Came as silent as the dew comes,
From the empty air appearing, 
Into empty air returning, 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men
In its coming and its going.
Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen.
Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments green and yellow; 
To and fro his plumes above him, 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him.
And he cried, "O Hiawatha! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He will give to you the triumph!"
Then he smiled, and said: "To-morrow 
Is the last day of your conflict,
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me; 
Make a bed for me to lie in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me, 
Where the sun may come and warm me; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me.
"Let no hand disturb my slumber, 
Let no weed nor worm molest me, 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me,
Only come yourself to watch me, 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine"
And thus saying, he departed; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him, 
Talking to the darksome forest; 
Heard the sighing of the branches,
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind, 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers: 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha.
On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal.
But he tasted not, and touched not, 
Only said to her, "Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting, 
Till the darkness falls around us, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes, 
Tells us that the day is ended."
Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward, 
Lengthened over field and forest,
Till the sun dropped from the heaven,
Floating on the waters westward,
As a red leaf in the Autumn
Falls and floats upon the water,
Falls and sinks into its bosom.
And behold! the young Mondamin,
With his soft and shining tresses,
With his garments green and yellow,
With his long and glossy plumage,
Stood and beckoned at the doorway.
And as one in slumber walking,
Pale and haggard, but undaunted,
From the wigwam Hiawatha
Came and wrestled with Mondamin.
Round about him spun the landscape,
Sky and forest reeled together,
And his strong heart leaped within him,
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles
In a net to break its meshes.
Like a ring of fire around him
Blazed and flared the red horizon,
And a hundred suns seemed looking
At the combat of the wrestlers.
Suddenly upon the greensward
All alone stood Hiawatha,
Panting with his wild exertion,
Palpitating with the struggle;
And before him breathless, lifeless,
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled,
Plumage torn, and garments tattered,
Dead he lay there in the sunset.
And victorious Hiawatha
Made the grave as he commanded,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Stripped his tattered plumage from him,
Laid him in the earth, and made it
Soft and loose and light above him;
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish!
Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 
Where his scattered plumes and garments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine.
Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it;
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.
Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another, 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!"
Then he called to old Nokomis 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize was growing, 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food forever.
And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from off them, 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

141. Tam Samson's Elegy

 HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson 2 again grown weel,
 To preach an’ read?
“Na’ waur than a’! cries ilka chiel,
 “Tam Samson’s dead!”


Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,
An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane,
An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean,
 In mourning weed;
To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane—
 Tam Samson’s dead!


The Brethren, o’ the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu’ bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
 Like ony bead;
Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel;
 Tam Samson’s dead!


When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
 Wi’ gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the “cock?”
 Tam Samson’s dead!


When Winter muffles up his cloak,
He was the king o’ a’ the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar,
 In time o’ need;
But now he lags on Death’s “hog-score”—
 Tam Samson’s dead!


Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail,
 And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail
 Tam Samson’s dead!


Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’;
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw
 Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa;
 Tam Samson’s dead!


That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d,
Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d,
While pointers round impatient burn’d,
 Frae couples free’d;
But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d!
 Tam Samson’s dead!


In vain auld age his body batters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
 An acre braid!
Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
 “Tam Samson’s dead!”


Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
 Wi’ deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet,
 “Tam Samson’s dead!”


When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger,
 Wi’ weel-aimed heed;
“L—d, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger—
 Tam Samson’s dead!


Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
 Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
 “Tam Samson’s dead!”


There, low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast
Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest
 To hatch an’ breed:
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest!
 Tam Samson’s dead!


When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,
 O’ pouther an’ lead,
Till Echo answer frae her cave,
 “Tam Samson’s dead!”


Heav’n rest his saul whare’er he be!
Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
 Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man want we:
 Tam Samson’s dead!


THE EPITAPHTam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in Heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.


PER CONTRAGo, Fame, an’ canter like a filly
Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie; 3
Tell ev’ry social honest billie
 To cease his grievin’;
For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie.
 Tam Samson’s leevin’!


 Note 1. A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” stanza ix.—R. B. [back]
Note 3. Kilmarnock.—R. B. [back]


Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Poor Singing Dame

 Beneath an old wall, that went round an old Castle,
For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread;
A neat little Hovel, its lowly roof raising,
Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its shed:
The turrets, that frown'd on the poor simple dwelling,
Were rock'd to and fro, when the Tempest would roar,
And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling,
Flow'd swiftly beside the green step of its door.

The Summer Sun, gilded the rushy-roof slanting,
The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge
And above, on the ramparts, the sweet Birds were chanting,
And wild buds thick dappled the clear river's edge.
When the Castle's rich chambers were haunted, and dreary,
The poor little Hovel was still, and secure;
And no robber e'er enter'd, or goblin or fairy,
For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure.

The Lord of the Castle, a proud, surly ruler,
Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring:
For the old Dame that liv'd in the little Hut chearly,
Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing:
When with revels the Castle's great Hall was resounding,
The Old Dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear;
And when over the mountains the Huntsmen were bounding
She would open her wicket, their clamours to hear.

To the merry-ton'd horn, she would dance on the threshold,
And louder, and louder, repeat her old Song:
And when Winter its mantle of Frost was displaying
She caroll'd, undaunted, the bare woods among:
She would gather dry Fern, ever happy and singing,
With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer,
And would smile when she heard the great Castle-bell ringing,
Inviting the Proud--to their prodigal chear.

Thus she liv'd, ever patient and ever contented,
Till Envy the Lord of the Castle possess'd,
For he hated that Poverty should be so chearful,
While care could the fav'rites of Fortune molest;
He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her,
And still would she carol her sweet roundelay;
At last, an old Steward, relentless he sent her--
Who bore her, all trembling, to Prison away!

Three weeks did she languish, then died, broken-hearted,
Poor Dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound!
And along the green path six young Bachelors bore her,
And laid her, for ever, beneath the cold ground!
And the primroses pale, 'mid the long grass were growing,
The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave
And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing
To bid the fresh flow'rets in sympathy wave.

The Lord of the Castle, from that fatal moment
When poor Singing MARY was laid in her grave,
Each night was surrounded by Screech-owls appalling,
Which o'er the black turrets their pinions would wave!
On the ramparts that frown'd on the river, swift flowing,
They hover'd, still hooting a terrible song,
When his windows would rattle, the Winter blast blowing,
They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among!

Wherever he wander'd they followed him crying,
At dawnlight, at Eve, still they haunted his way!
When the Moon shone across the wide common, they hooted,
Nor quitted his path, till the blazing of day.
His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying,
And he hung his proud head, and he perish'd with shame;
And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying,
O'ershadows the grave, of THE POOR SINGING DAME!
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

The Buglers First Communion

 A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hill
There)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish
 Mother to an English sire (he
Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), 

This very very day came down to us after a boon he on
My late being there begged of me, overflowing
 Boon in my bestowing,
Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion. 

Here he knelt then ín regimental red.
Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet
 To his youngster take his treat!
Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. 

There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine,
By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless;
 Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless;
Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine. 

Frowning and forefending angel-warder
Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him;
 March, kind comrade, abreast him;
Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order. 

How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill,
When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach
 Yields tender as a pushed peach,
Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! 

Then though I should tread tufts of consolation
Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to
 And do serve God to serve to
Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration. 

Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains
Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending
 That sweet's sweeter ending;
Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns. 

O now well work that sealing sacred ointment!
O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad
 And locks love ever in a lad!
Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment 

Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift,
In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing
 That brow and bead of being,
An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's drift 

Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry
Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam
 In backwheels though bound home?—
That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; 

Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas
Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did
 Prayer go disregarded:
Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Song Of Love

 ("S'il est un charmant gazon.") 
 
 {XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.} 


 If there be a velvet sward 
 By dewdrops pearly drest, 
 Where through all seasons fairies guard 
 Flowers by bees carest, 
 Where one may gather, day and night, 
 Roses, honeysuckle, lily white, 
 I fain would make of it a site 
 For thy foot to rest. 
 
 If there be a loving heart 
 Where Honor rules the breast, 
 Loyal and true in every part, 
 That changes ne'er molest, 
 Eager to run its noble race, 
 Intent to do some work of grace, 
 I fain would make of it a place 
 For thy brow to rest. 
 
 And if there be of love a dream 
 Rose-scented as the west, 
 Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,— 
 A something sweet and blest,— 
 A dream of which heaven is the pole, 
 A dream that mingles soul and soul, 
 I fain of it would make the goal 
 Where thy mind should rest. 
 
 TORU DUTT. 


 




Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

Song. To Sickness

VIII. ? SONG. ? TO SICKNESS.     To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ?     Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,And this age will build no more.     'Pray thee, feed contented then,     Sickness, only on us men ;     Or if it needs thy lust will taste     Woman-kind ; devour the waste     Livers, round about the town. But, forgive me, ? with thy crown They maintain the truest trade,10    Daintiness, and softer ease,     Sleeked limbs, and finest blood ?     If thy leanness love such food,     There are those, that for thy sake,     Do enough ; and who would take     Any pains : yea, think it price,     To become thy sacrifice.     That distill, their husbands' land    Lying for the spirit of amber.     That for the oil of talc dare spend     More than citizens dare lend     Them, and all their officers.     That to make all pleasure theirs,     Will by coach, and water go,     Every stew in town to know ;     Dare entail their loves on any,    Play away health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve ; And will long, ere thou should'st starve, On their beds, most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest suit, In thy justice to molest None but them, and leave the rest.
Ladies, and of them the best? Do not men enow of rights To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfeits ; and their days, And nights too, in worser ways ?     Take heed, Sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surfeit too. Live not we, as all thy stalls,
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

The Discontent

 I.
HEre take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse,
 Nor ought of Art or Labour use:
 But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,
Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow.
 The ruggeder my Measures run when read,
They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.
 Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents,
 Which flatt'ring Hope presents,
 Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake;
 But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make:
 For 'tis not long before their Feet,
 Inextricable Mazes meet,
 Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way,
 Mountains with-stand them of Dismay;
 Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead,
 Where's nought their Ruine to impede, 

 In vain for Aide they then to Reason call,
 Their Senses dazle, and their Heads turn round,
 The sight does all their Pow'rs confound,
And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall:
 Where storms of Sighs for ever blow,
 Where raped streams of Tears do flow,
 Which drown them in a Briny Floud.
My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good,
 Nought that the World can show,
 Nought that it can bestow. 

II.
 Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay,
 Ah, too successful to betray,
 When spread in our fraile Vertues way:
 For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace,
That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race.
 And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend,
 Or greedy Avarice would wish to save;
 Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send,
 Or in the Sea has found a Grave,
 Joyn'd in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be,
 The Body from a stern Disease to free, 
 Or purchase for the Minds relief
One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief,
But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move:
 When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love
 Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand,
 To part with it their Hearts they can't command:
 But chose to miss, what miss't does them torment,
 And that to hug, affords them no Content.
 Wise Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold,
 Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold. 

III.
 Nor yet, if rightly understood,
 Does Grandeur carry more of Good;
 To be o'th' Number of the Great enroll'd,
 A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold.
 For what is this?
 If I not judge amiss.
 But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take,
 And of one single Family to make?
 The Wrong'd, the Poor, th'Opprest, the Sad,
 The Ruin'd, Malecontent, and Mad? 

 Which a great Part of ev'ry Empire frame,
 And Interest in the common Father claime.
 Again what is't, but always to abide
 A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend
 A Life that's vain, or Evil without End?
And which is yet not safely held, nor laid aside?
And then, if lesser Titles carry less of Care,
Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share
Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best,
When of the least of it Men are possest. 

IV.
 But, O, the Laurel'd Fool! that doats on Fame,
 Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name;
 Who can accept for Pay
 Of what he does, what others say;
 Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast,
To toylsome Study then betrays his Rest;
 Now to his Soul denies a just Content,
 Then forces on it what it does resent;
 And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those,
 Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose.
 O famisht Soul, which such Thin Food can feed!
 O Wretched Labour crown'd with such a Meed! 

 Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too shrill,
 To lull a Mind to Rest,
 Or calme a stormy Breast,
 Which asks a Musick soft and still.
 'Twas not Amaleck's vanquisht Cry,
 Nor Israels shout of Victory,
 That could in Saul the rising Passion lay,
'Twas the soft strains of David's Lyre the Evil Spirit chace't away. 

V.
 But Friendship fain would yet it self defend,
 And Mighty Things it does pretend,
 To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Baite,
The Sweet Refection of our toylsome State.
 But though True Friendship a Rich Cordial be,
 Alas, by most 'tis so alay'd,
 Its Good so mixt with Ill we see,
 That Dross for Gold is often paid.
 And for one Grain of Friendship that is found,
 Falshood and Interest do the Mass compound,
Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound.
 Love in no Two was ever yet the same,
 No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame. 

VI.
 Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne're prest?
 That Aire which never yet by Humane Breast
 Respir'd, did Life supply?
 Oh, thither let me fly!
 Where from the World at such a distance set,
All that's past, present, and to come I may forget:
 The Lovers Sighs, and the Afflicted Tears,
 What e're may wound my Eyes or Ears.
 The grating Noise of Private Jars,
 The horrid sound of Publick Wars,
 Of babling Fame the Idle Stories,
 The short-liv'd Triumphs Noysy-Glories,
 The Curious Nets the subtile weave,
 The Word, the Look that may deceive.
No Mundan Care shall more affect my Breast,
 My profound Peace shake or molest:
But Stupor, like to Death, my Senses bind,
 That so I may anticipate that Rest,
Which only in my Grave I hope to find.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things