10 Best Famous Monarchs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Monarchs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Monarchs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Monarchs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of monarchs poems.

• All Famous Monarchs Poems

 THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain
In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ;
The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong,
With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong.
The tower of ages in fragments is laid,
Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ;
And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave
Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave.

Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet
Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet--
Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust
From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust.
Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride,
'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a bride ;
Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair--
Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there.

Cities of splendour, where palace and gate,
Where the marble of strength and the purple of state ;
Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine,
Once flourished in glory ; oh ! are ye not mine ?
Go look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found
In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound ;
And the slime of my trailing discovers my home,
'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Rome.

I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed
Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread ;
I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse
On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows.
The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade,
Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade.
They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee
To learn what the churchyard has given to me.

Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain,
For where monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign ;
I delve at my ease and regale where I may ;
None dispute with the worm in his will or his way.
The high and the bright for my feasting must fall--
Youth, Beauty, and Manhood, I prey on ye all :
The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave ;
All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave.

 All human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey:
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:
In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute
Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute.
This aged prince now flourishing in peace,
And blest with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the State:
And pond'ring which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit;
Cry'd, 'tis resolv'd; for nature pleads that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me:
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dullness from his tender years.
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day:
Besides his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology:
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung
When to King John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames did'st cut thy way,
With well tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar:
Echoes from Pissing-Alley, Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast, that floats along.
Sometimes as prince of thy harmonious band
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopt the good old sire; and wept for joy
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dullness he was made.

 Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch tower once; but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains.
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys.
Where their vast courts, the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep.
Near these a nursery erects its head,
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy.
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches, the suburbian muse affords;
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne.
For ancient Decker prophesi'd long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dullness should some Psyches owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humorists and hypocrites it should produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.

 Now Empress Fame had publisht the renown,
Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-Hill, and distant Watling-street.
No Persian carpets spread th'imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way.
Bilk'd stationers for yeoman stood prepar'd,
And Herringman was Captain of the Guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sat
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent dullness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome;
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain,
That he till death true dullness would maintain;
And in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade:
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre and his rule of sway;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung,
His temples last with poppies were o'er spread,
That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head:
Just at that point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood:

Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the Western main;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne.
Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen;
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd Amen.
Then thus, continu'd he, my son advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let other teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dullness, and desire no foreign aid:
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
Nay let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien Sedley interpose
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou would'st cull,
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;
But write thy best, and top; and in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.
Let Father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And Uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part;
What share have we in Nature or in Art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my ****,
Promis'd a play and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd as oil on waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way, to dullness, 'tis inclin'd,
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And in all changes that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep,
Thy Tragic Muse gives smiles, thy Comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite.
In thy felonious heart, though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram:
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in acrostic land.
There thou may'st wings display and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard,
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Born upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

 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]

 Purple as tulips in May, mauve 
into lush velvet, purple 
as the stain blackberries leave 
on the lips, on the hands, 
the purple of ripe grapes 
sunlit and warm as flesh. 
Every day I will give you a color, 
like a new flower in a bud vase 
on your desk. Every day 
I will paint you, as women 
color each other with henna 
on hands and on feet. 

Red as henna, as cinnamon, 
as coals after the fire is banked, 
the cardinal in the feeder, 
the roses tumbling on the arbor 
their weight bending the wood 
the red of the syrup I make from petals. 

Orange as the perfumed fruit 
hanging their globes on the glossy tree, 
orange as pumpkins in the field, 
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs 
who come to eat it, orange as my 
cat running lithe through the high grass. 

Yellow as a goat's wise and wicked eyes, 
yellow as a hill of daffodils, 
yellow as dandelions by the highway, 
yellow as butter and egg yolks, 
yellow as a school bus stopping you, 
yellow as a slicker in a downpour. 

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing 
song of all the things you make 
me think of, here is oblique 
praise for the height and depth 
of you and the width too. 
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet. 

Green as mint jelly, green 
as a frog on a lily pad twanging, 
the green of cos lettuce upright 
about to bolt into opulent towers, 
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear 
glass, green as wine bottles. 

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums, 
bachelors' buttons. Blue as Roquefort, 
blue as Saga. Blue as still water. 
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat. 
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring 
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop. 

Cobalt as the midnight sky 
when day has gone without a trace 
and we lie in each other's arms 
eyes shut and fingers open 
and all the colors of the world 
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

 In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest,
A jewelled collar shone upon his breast,
A giant ruby glittered in his crown -----
Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town.
In him the glories of an ancient line
Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine,
Were centred; and to him with loyal awe
The people looked for leadership and law.
Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land,
Lay like a single sword within his hand;
A hundred courts, with power of life and death,
Proclaimed decrees justice by his breath;
And all the sacred growths that men had known
Of order and of rule upheld his throne.

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart
As fits a man to play a royal part.
Not his the pride that honours as a trust
The right to rule, the duty to be just:
Not his the dignity that bends to bear
The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care,
And labours like the peasant at his gate,
To serve the people and protect the State.
Another pride was his, and other joys:
To him the crown and sceptre were but toys,
With which he played at glory's idle game,
To please himself and win the wreaths of fame.
The throne his fathers held from age to age
Built for King Martin to diplay at will,
His mighty strength and universal skill.


No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries
At every step to win admiring eyes, ----
No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws 
From gaping crowds loud thunder of applause,
Was vainer than the King: his only thirst
Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.
When tournament was held, in knightly guise
The King would ride the lists and win the prize;
When music charmed the court, with golden lyre
The King would take the stage and lead the choir;
In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar;
In hawking, see his falcon highest soar;
In painting, he would wield the master's brush;
In high debate, -----"the King is speaking! Hush!"
Thus, with a restless heart, in every field
He sought renown, and found his subjects yield 
As if he were a demi-god revealed. 


But while he played the petty games of life
His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife;
Corruption through the court unheeded crept,
And on the seat of honour justice slept.
The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor
Groaned under burdens grievous to endure.
The nation's wealth was spent in vain display,
And weakness wore the nation's heart away.

Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes ---
Man has more friends and helpers than he knows;
And when a patient people are oppressed,
The land that bore them feels it in her breast.
Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill,
Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill;
The trees complain together in the night,
Voices of wrath are heard along the height,
And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand,
To bring the tyrant low and liberate the land.


But little recked the pampered King of these;
He heard no voice but such as praise and please.
Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport,
One day he wandered idly with his court
Beside the river, seeking to devise
New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes.
There in the stream a patient fisher stood,
And cast his line across the rippling flood.
His silver spoil lay near him on the green:
"Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen!"
"Three salmon larger than a cloth-yard shaft---
"This man must be the master of his craft!"
"An easy art!" the jealous King replied:
"Myself could learn it better, if I tried,
"And catch a hundred larger fish a week---
"Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!"
The fisher turned, came near, and bent his knee:
"'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me;
"Yet if the King commands it, I obey.
"But one condition of the strife I pray:
"The fisherman who brings the least to land
"Shall do whate'er the other may command."
Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou!
"For I shall win and rule thee then as now."


So to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate
And slow, King Martin left the helm of state,
While to the novel game with eager zest
He all his time and all his powers addrest.
Sure such a sight was never seen before!
For robed and crowned the monarch trod the shore;
His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine,
His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.
With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream,
Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam;
Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain
The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.
On Friday, when the week was almost spent,
He scanned his empty creel with discontent,
Called for a net, and cast it far and wide,
And drew --- a thousand minnows from the tide!
Then came the fisher to conclude the match,
And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch ---
A hundred salmon, greater than before ---
"I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score."
Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down:
"Rather than lose this game I'd lose me crown!"


"Nay, thou has lost them both," the fisher said;
And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed
Around his form; he dropped his garments mean,
And in his place the River-god was seen.
"Thy vanity hast brought thee in my power,
"And thou shalt pay the forfeit at this hour:
"For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool,
"Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule.
"Eager to win in every trivial strife, ---
"Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!"
Wrathful, the King the scornful sentence heard;
He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed:
His Tyrian robe was changed to wings of blue,
His crown became a crest, --- away he flew!

And still, along the reaches of the stream,
The vain King-fisher flits, an azure gleam, ---
You see his ruby crest, you hear his jealous scream.

All human things are subject to decay.
And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was called to empire, and had governed long;
In prose and verse was owned, without dispute,
Throughout the realms of nonsense, absolute.

 I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once fair and stately palace --
Radiant palace --reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion --
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This --all this --was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.

III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh --but smile no more.

 84 Thee the ancientest peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the monarch's right hand, red as wines
85 From his mountains; an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments,
86 And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o'er the council he stretch'd his red limbs,
87 Cloth'd in flames of crimson; as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves of corn,
88 The fierce Duke hung over the council; around him crowd, weeping in his burning robe,
89 A bright cloud of infant souls; his words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves:
90 "Shall this marble built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an oak stool and these mowers
91 From the Atlantic mountains mow down all this great starry harvest of six thousand years?
92 And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook'd sickle o'er fertile France
93 Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of earth bound in sheaves,
94 And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat burnt for fuel;
95 Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and sceptre from sun and moon,
96 The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science
97 From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on the rock
98 Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour?
99 This to prevent--urg'd by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering in night,
100 To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow'd with plows, whose seed is departing from her--
101 Thy nobles have gather'd thy starry hosts round this rebellious city,
102 To rouze up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud breathing war,
103 To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet and war shout reply.
104 Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven; they cry over Paris, and wait
105 Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles; the eagles of heaven must have their prey!"
106 He ceas'd, and burn'd silent; red clouds roll round Necker; a weeping is heard o'er the palace.
107 Like a dark cloud Necker paus'd, and like thunder on the just man's burial day he paus'd;
108 Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows, while the husbandman and woman of weakness
109 And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay with love,
110 Then turn towards pensive fields; so Necker paus'd, and his visage was covered with clouds.

111 The King lean'd on his mountains, then lifted his head and look'd on his armies, that shone
112 Through heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood; then turning to Burgundy, troubled:
113 "Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o'ergrown with distress.
114 For the nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the writing of God
115 Written in my bosom. Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares.
116 We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak;
117 I hear rushing of muskets, and bright'ning of swords, and visages redd'ning with war,
118 Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning city.
119 Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard,
120 And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the nobles of France.
121 Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passed away."

 I 
'Tis done -- but yesterday a King! 
And arm'd with Kings to strive -- 
And now thou art a nameless thing: 
So abject -- yet alive! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 
And can he thus survive? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

II 
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 
Who bow'd so low the knee? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, -- power to save, -- 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 
To those that worshipp'd thee; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness! 

III 
Thanks for that lesson -- It will teach 
To after-warriors more, 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 
And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 
That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

IV 
The triumph and the vanity, 
The rapture of the strife -- 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 
To thee the breath of life; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 
Wherewith renown was rife -- 
All quell'd! -- Dark Spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

V 
The Desolator desolate! 
The Victor overthrown! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 
A Suppliant for his own! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope? 
Or dread of death alone? 
To die a prince -- or live a slave -- 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 

VI 
He who of old would rend the oak, 
Dream'd not of the rebound: 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke -- 
Alone -- how look'd he round? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found: 
He fell, the forest prowler's prey; 
But thou must eat thy heart away! 

VII 
The Roman, when his burning heart 
Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger -- dared depart, 
In savage grandeur, home -- 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
Yet left him such a doom! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

VIII 
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well: 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

IX 
But thou -- from thy reluctant hand 
The thunderbolt is wrung -- 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 
To which thy weakness clung; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 
To see thine own unstrung; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean; 
X 
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
Who thus can hoard his own! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 
And thank'd him for a throne! 
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind! 

XI 
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 
Nor written thus in vain -- 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
Or deepen every stain: 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 
To shame the world again -- 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night? 

XII 
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
Is vile as vulgar clay; 
Thy scales, Mortality! are just 
To all that pass away: 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 
To dazzle and dismay: 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

XIII 
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 
Thy still imperial bride; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 
Still clings she to thy side? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 
Thou throneless Homicide? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, -- 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 

XIV 
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
And gaze upon the sea; 
That element may meet thy smile -- 
It ne'er was ruled by thee! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 
That Earth is now as free! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

XV 
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage 
What thought will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one -- "The word was mine!" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 
Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-- 
So long obey'd -- so little worth! 

XVI 
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, 
Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 
His vulture and his rock! 
Foredoom'd by God -- by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 
The very Fiend's arch mock; 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! 

XVII 
There was a day -- there was an hour, 
While earth was Gaul's -- Gaul thine -- 
When that immeasurable power 
Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 
And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

XVIII 
But thou forsooth must be a king, 
And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 
Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
The star, the string, the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatched away? 

XIX 
Where may the wearied eye repose 
When gazing on the Great; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 
Nor despicable state? 
Yes --one--the first--the last--the best-- 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 
Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one!

 Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His 
Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver,
Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc.
(Oliver Cromwell)

Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 


1

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, 
Who would before have borne him to the sky, 
Like eager Romans ere all rites were past 
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 

2

Though our best notes are treason to his fame 
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; 
Since Heav'n, what praise we offer to his name, 
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice; 

3

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, 
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown 
Add not to his immortal memory, 
But do an act of friendship to their own; 

4

Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too 
Such monuments as we can build to raise, 
Lest all the world prevent what we should do 
And claim a title in him by their praise. 

5

How shall I then begin, or where conclude 
To draw a fame so truly circular? 
For in a round what order can be shew'd, 
Where all the parts so equal perfect are? 

6

His grandeur he deriv'd from Heav'n alone, 
For he was great ere fortune made him so, 
And wars like mists that rise against the sun 
Made him but greater seem, not greater grown. 

7

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, 
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring. 
Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born 
With the too early thoughts of being king. 

8

Fortune (that easy mistress of the young 
But to her ancient servant coy and hard) 
Him at that age her favorites rank'd among 
When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard. 

9

He, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway, 
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun, 
Not like rash monarchs who their youth betray 
By acts their age too late would wish undone. 

10

And yet dominion was not his design; 
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, 
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, 
Rewards that less to him than us were given. 

11

Our former chiefs like sticklers of the war 
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise, 
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor, 
And did not strike to hurt but make a noise. 

12

War, our consumption, was their gainfull trade; 
We inward bled whilst they prolong'd our pain; 
He fought to end our fighting and assay'd 
To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. 

13

Swift and resistless through the land he pass'd 
Like that bold Greek who did the east subdue, 
And made to battles such heroic haste 
As if on wings of victory he flew. 

14

He fought secure of fortune as of fame, 
Till by new maps the island might be shown, 
Of conquests which he strew'd where'er he came 
Thick as a galaxy with stars is sown. 

15

His palms, though under weights they did not stand, 
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade; 
Heav'n in his portrait shew'd a workman's hand 
And drew it perfect yet without a shade. 

16

Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, 
Which war had banish'd and did now restore; 
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air 
To seat themselves more surely than before. 

17

Her safety rescu'd Ireland to him owes, 
And treacherous Scotland, to no int'rest true, 
Yet bless'd that fate which did his arms dispose 
Her land to civilize as to subdue. 

18

Nor was he like those stars which only shine 
When to pale mariners they storms portend; 
He had his calmer influence, and his mien 
Did love and majesty together blend. 

19

'Tis true, his count'nance did imprint an awe, 
And naturally all souls to his did bow, 
As wands of divination downward draw 
And points to beds where sov'reign gold doth grow. 

20

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove, 
He Mars depos'd and arms to gowns made yield; 
Successful councils did him soon approve 
As fit for close intrigues as open field. 

21

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace, 
Our once bold rival in the British main, 
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease 
And buy our friendship with her idol, gain. 

22

Fame of th' asserted sea through Europe blown 
Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; 
Each knew that side must conquer he would own, 
And for him fiercely as for empire strove. 

23

No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd 
Than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh'd; 
His fortune turn'd the scale where it was cast, 
Though Indian mines were in the other laid. 

24

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his right, 
For though some meaner artist's skill were shown 
In mingling colours, or in placing light, 
Yet still the fair designment was his own. 

25

For from all tempers he could service draw; 
The worth of each with its alloy he knew, 
And as the confidant of Nature saw 
How she complexions did divide and brew. 

26

Or he their single virtues did survey 
By intuition in his own large breast, 
Where all the rich ideas of them lay, 
That were the rule and measure to the rest. 

27

When such heroic virtue Heav'n sets out, 
The stars like Commons sullenly obey, 
Because it drains them when it comes about, 
And therefore is a tax they seldom pay. 

28

From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, 
Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, 
Since their commencement to his arms they owe, 
If springs as high as fountains may ascend. 

29

He made us freemen of the continent 
Whom Nature did like captives treat before, 
To nobler preys the English lion sent, 
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar. 

30

That old unquestion'd pirate of the land, 
Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heard, 
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand, 
Although an Alexander were here guard. 

31

By his command we boldly cross'd the line 
And bravely fought where southern stars arise, 
We trac'd the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine 
And that which brib'd our fathers made our prize. 

32

Such was our prince; yet own'd a soul above 
The highest acts it could produce to show: 
Thus poor mechanic arts in public move 
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. 

33

Nor di'd he when his ebbing fame went less, 
But when fresh laurels courted him to live; 
He seem'd but to prevent some new success, 
As if above what triumphs earth could give. 

34

His latest victories still thickest came, 
As near the center motion does increase, 
Till he, press'd down by his own weighty name, 
Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease. 

35

But first the ocean as a tribute sent 
That giant prince of all her watery herd, 
And th' isle when her protecting genius went 
Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferr'd. 

36

No civil broils have since his death arose, 
But faction now by habit does obey, 
And wars have that respect for his repose, 
As winds for halycons when they breed at sea. 

37

His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; 
His name a great example stands to show 
How strangely high endeavours may be blest, 
Where piety and valour jointly go.