10 Best Famous Patrons Poems

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

• All Famous Patrons Poems

 I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

 In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

 In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

 Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.


II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

 That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

 The houses are all gone under the sea.

 The dancers are all gone under the hill.


III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

 You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
 You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
 You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
 You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
 You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.


IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

 Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

 The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

 The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

 The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.


V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

 Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, 
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. 

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, 
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. 

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. 
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. 
They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that. 
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake; 
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake. 

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat; 
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all. 
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. 

And when the dust had lifted, 
and men saw what had occurred, 
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; 
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; 

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; 
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. 

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, 
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. 

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, 
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat. 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. 

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, 
defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, 
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. 

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -- 
"That ain't my style," said Casey. 

"Strike one!" the umpire said. 
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, 
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore. 

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, 
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone, 
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on. 

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew, 
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!" 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" 
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, 
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. 

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate. 
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate. 

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, 
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. 
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. 
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout, 

but there is no joy in Mudville 
mighty Casey has struck out. 

 After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.

Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:

This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.

Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:

The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.

 Wasn't on purpose that I drilled 
through my finger or the nurse 
laughed. She apologized 
three times and gave me a shot 
of something that was a lusher 
apology. The person 
who drove me home 
said my smile was a smeared 
totem that followed 
his body that night as it arced 
over a cliff in a dream.
He's always flying 
in his dreams and lands 
on cruise ships or hovers 
over Atlanta with an ********.
He put me to bed and the drugs
wore off and I woke 
to cannibals at my extremities. 
I woke with a sense
of what nails in the palms 
might do to a spirit 
temporarily confined to flesh. 
That too was an accident 
if you believe Judas 
merely wanted to be loved. 
To be loved by God, 
Urban the 8th 
had heads cut off 
that were inadequately 
bowed by dogma. To be loved 
by Blondie, Dagwood
gets nothing right 
except the hallucinogenic 
architecture of sandwiches. 
He would have drilled 
through a finger too 
while making a case for books 
on home repair and health. 
Drilling through my finger's 
not the dumbest thing 
I've done. Second place 
was approaching 
a frozen gas-cap with lighter
in hand while thinking 
heat melts ice and not 
explosion kills *******. First 
place was passing 
through a bedroom door 
and removing silk that did not
belong to my wife.
Making a bookcase is not 
the extent of my apology. 
I've also been beaten up 
in a bar for saying huevos 
rancheros in a way 
insulting to the patrons' 
ethnicity. I've also lost 
my job because lying 
face down on the couch 
didn't jibe with my employer's 
definition of home 
office. I wanted her to come
through the door on Sunday
and see the bookcase 
she'd asked me to build 
for a year and be impressed 
that it didn't lean 
or wobble even though 
I've only leaned and often 
wobbled. Now it's half
done but certainly
a better gift with its map
of my unfaithful blood.

 Well then; the promis'd hour is come at last;
The present age of wit obscures the past:
Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ,
Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit;
Theirs was the giant race, before the Flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn soil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd:
Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude;
And boisterous English wit, with art endu'd.
Our age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.
Our builders were, with want of genius, curst;
The second temple was not like the first:
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our beauties equal; but excel our strength.
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base:
The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space;
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise:
He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please:
Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match'd in judgment, both o'er-match'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see;
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity;
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly.
All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd;
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd;
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless Consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame;
And scholar to the youth he taught, became.

Oh that your brows my laurel had sustain'd,
Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd!
The father had descended for the son;
For only you are lineal to the throne.
Thus when the State one Edward did depose;
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not I, but poetry is curs'd;
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let 'em not mistake my patron's part;
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophesy; thou shalt be seen,
(Tho' with some short parenthesis between:)
High on the throne of wit; and seated there,
Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise, is to be regular.
Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought,
But genius must be born; and never can be taught.
This is your portion; this your native store;
Heav'n that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.

Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need;
For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
Already I am worn with cares and age;
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence:
But you, whom ev'ry muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and oh defend,
Against your judgment your departed friend!
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue;
But shade those laurels which descend to you:
And take for tribute what these lines express:
You merit more; nor could my love do less.

  
XII. — EPISTLE TO ELIZABETH COUNTESS OF RUTLAND. 
That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven, And for it, life, conscience, yea souls are given, Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court, To every squire, or groom, that will report Well or ill, only all the following year, Just to the weight their this day's presents bear ; While it makes huishers serviceable men,Of some grand peer, whose air doth make rejoice The fool that gave it ;  who will want and weep, When his proud patron's favors are asleep ; While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor fame ; Runs between man and man ;  'tween dame, and dame ; Solders crack'd friendship ; makes love last a day ; Or perhaps less :  whilst gold bears all this sway, I, that have none to send you, send you verse.Than this our gilt, nor golden age can deem, When gold was made no weapon to cut throats, Or put to flight Astrea, when her ingóts Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth, Than here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth, But let this dross carry what price it will With noble ignorants, and let them still Turn upon scorned verse, their quarter-face :Were it to think, that you should not inherit His love unto the Muses, when his skill Almost you have, or may have when you will ! Wherein wise nature you a dowry gave, Worth an estate, treble to that you have. Beauty I know is good, and blood is more ; Riches thought most ;  but, madam, think what store The world hath seen, which all these had in trust,And at her strong arm's end, hold up, and even, The souls she loves.  Those other glorious notes, Inscribed in touch or marble, or the coats Painted, or carv'd upon our great men's tombs, Or in their windows, do but prove the wombs That bred them, graves : when they were born they died,  That had no muse to make their fame abide. How many equal with the Argive queen,Or, in an army's head, that lock'd in brass Gave killing strokes.  There were brave men before Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store That Homer brought to Troy ;  yet none so live, Because they lack'd the sacred pen could give Like life unto them.  Who heav'd Hercules Unto the stars, or the Tindarides ? Who placed Jason's Argo in the sky,Or lifted Cassiopea in her chair, But only poets, rapt with rage divine ? And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine. You, and that other star, that purest light, Of all Lucina's train, Lucy the bright ; Than which a nobler heaven itself knows not ; Who, though she hath a better verser got, Or poet, in the court-account, than I,To my less sanguine muse, wherein she hath won My grateful soul, the subject of her powers, I have already used some happy hours, To her remembrance ;  which when time shall bring To curious light, to notes I then shall sing, Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be : For I shall move stocks, stones, no less than he. Then all that have but done my Muse least grace,Had not their form touch'd by an English wit. There, like a rich and golden pyramed, Borne up by statues, shall I rear your head Above your under-carved ornaments, And shew how to the life my soul presents Your form imprest there :  not with tickling rhymes, Or common-places, filch'd, that take these times, But high and noble matter, such as fliesAnd your brave friend and mine so well did love. Who, wheresoe'er he be ?The rest is lost.        
Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, And almost every vice, almighty gold, That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven, And for it, life, conscience, yea souls are given, Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court, To every squire, or groom, that will report Well or ill, only all the following year, Just to the weight their this day's presents bear ; While it makes huishers serviceable men,

 When Diamonds are a Legend,
And Diadems -- a Tale --
I Brooch and Earrings for Myself,
Do sow, and Raise for sale --

And tho' I'm scarce accounted,
My Art, a Summer Day -- had Patrons --
Once -- it was a Queen --
And once -- a Butterfly --

 A WIT, transported with Inditing, 
Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing; 
Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends, 
Had Poems at his Fingers Ends; 
For new Events was still providing; 
Yet now desirous to be riding, 
He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty 
And in Vacation left the City; 
So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, 
With secret Passions, sweet Confusions; 
With Sentences from Plays well-known, 
And thousand Couplets of his own; 
That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay, 
And seem'd to him the Milky Way. 
But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing, 
And Poets ever will be crossing, 
Misled the Steed, which ill he guided, 
Where several gloomy Paths divided. 
The steepest in Descent he follow'd, 
Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd; 
Till, he believ'd, alive and booted, 
He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted. 
But all, that he cou'd there discover, 
Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over, 
Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating, 
As Bags of Gold he thence was getting; 
Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections 
By him, who liv'd on high Reflections, 
Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended, 
And Poetry no more befriended. 

I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying; 
When all was Riot, Masking, Playing; 
When witty Beggars were in fashion, 
And Learning had o'er-run the Nation, 
But, since Mankind is so much wiser, 
That none is valued like the Miser, 
I draw it hence, and now these Sums 
In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs;
Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute 
We rule the World, and all that's in it. 

But, quoth the Poet,can you raise, 
As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays? 
Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather, 
May Fruits of Reputation gather? 
Will Men of Quality, and Spirit, 
Regard you for intrinsick Merit? 
And seek you out, before your Betters, 
For Conversation, Wit, and Letters? 

Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding; 
Have these been Times for such Proceeding? 
Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded, 
Are you not Slighted, or Discarded? 
What have you met with, but Disgraces? 
Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places; 
And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter, 
But for his dabbling in the Morter. 
ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on, 
Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton. 
PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known, 
Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own. 
Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town 
Her due Proportion of Renown? 
What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen, 
T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen? 
Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag, 
Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG? 
Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you, 
With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you? 

Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes 
Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes? 

No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers: 
Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers; 
There are Mecænas's among 'em. 

Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em; 
But in your Censures use a Conscience, 
Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense: 
Since they, as your own Poets sing, 
Now grant no Worth in any thing 
But so much Money as 'twill bring. 
Then, never more from your Endeavours 
Expect Preferment, or less Favours. 
But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse, 
Be sure, put Money in your Purse; 
Money! which only can relieve you 
When Fame and Friendship will deceive you. 

Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing, 
And all that he had said allowing) 
Behold me and my airy Fancies 
Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances. 
I here submit to your Discourses; 
Which since Experience too enforces, 
I, in that solitary Pit, 
Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit: 
Till Time, which hastily advances, 
And gives to all new Turns and Chances, 
Again may bring it into use; 
Roscommons may again produce; 
New Augustean Days revive, 
When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive. 
Till when, let those converse in private, 
Who taste what others don't arrive at; 
Yielding that Mammonists surpass us; 
And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.

 The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble, 
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble; 
Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still, 
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill: 
And hardly waddles forth, to cool 
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool: 
Nor loudly cackles at the Door; 
For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze, 
And round the barren Common strays, 
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare 
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare: 
Her Body light, she tries her Wings, 
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs, 
While all the Parish, as she flies, 
Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.

Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay, 
(The third Night's Profits of his Play;) 
His Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill, 
Among his Brethren of the Quill: 
With good Roast Beef his Belly full, 
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull: 
Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight, 
What Poet e'er could take his Flight? 
Or stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat, 
What Poet e'er could sing a Note? 
Nor Pegasus could bear the Load, 
Along the high celestial Road; 
The Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth, 
To raise the Lumber from the Earth.

But, view him in another Scene, 
When all his Drink is Hippocrene, 
His Money spent, his Patrons fail, 
His Credit out for Cheese and Ale; 
His Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare, 
Through ev'ry Thread it lets in Air; 
With hungry Meals his Body pin'd, 
His Guts and Belly full of Wind; 
And, like a Jockey for a Race, 
His Flesh brought down to Flying-Case: 
Now his exalted Spirit loaths 
Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths; 
And up he rises like a Vapour, 
Supported high on Wings of Paper; 
He singing flies, and flying sings, 
While from below all Grub-street rings.

 THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare,
 Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air,
 And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.


Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell,
 Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train; 1
Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow’d well, 2
 Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 3


Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks,
 The clouds swift-wing’d flew o’er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
 And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.


The paly moon rose in the livid east.
 And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
 And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm


Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
 ’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d:
Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe,
 The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.


Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war,
 Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d,
That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar,
 And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.


“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!”
 With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried;
“Low lies the hand oft was stretch’d to save,
 Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.


“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear;
 The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry;
The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier;
 And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!


“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
 I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow:
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
 Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.


“My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,
 While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
 And future ages hear his growing fame.


“And I will join a mother’s tender cares,
 Thro’ future times to make his virtues last;
That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”—
 She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.


 Note 1. The King’s Park at Holyrood House.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. St. Anthony’s well.—R. B. [back]
Note 3. St. Anthony’s Chapel.—R. B. [back]