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Best Famous Reception Poems

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Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Mac Flecknoe

 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.


Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Change

 POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry, 
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie? 
Since brought, alas! to sad Decay, 
What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay? 
The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride, 
Now on new Streams forgetful ride: 
And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay, 
Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play.
All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears, To waste thy sad Remains in Tears; Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.
Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed, Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow; For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know.
And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high; But late, the Splendour of the Sky; What Flow'r, tho' by thy Influence born, Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn? Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow, What Persian Votary will bow? What River will her Smiles reflect, Now that no Beams thou can'st direct? By watry Vapours overcast, Who thinks upon thy Glories past? If present Light, nor Heat we get, Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set.
Not all the past can one Adorer keep, Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.
Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast, Since undermin'd by Time and Frost: Since thou canst no Reception give, In untrod Meadows thou may'st live.
None from his ready Road will turn, With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.
Not the soft Nights, or chearful Days Thou hast bestow'd, can give thee Praise.
No lusty Tree that near thee grows, (Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose) Will to thy Age a Staff become.
Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb.
Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt, Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.
The same, poor Man, the same must be Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues, And losing Her, thou all must lose.
No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days, Can Fruit in this cold Season raise: No Benefit, by thee conferr'd, Can in this time of Storms be heard.
All from thy troubl'd Waters run; Thy stooping Fabrick all Men shun.
All do thy clouded Looks decline, As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine.
O wretched Man! to other World's repair; For Faith and Gratitude are only there.
Written by Marilyn Hacker | Create an image from this poem

Desesperanto

 After Joseph Roth

Parce que c'était lui; parce que c'était moi.
Montaigne, De L'amitië The dream's forfeit was a night in jail and now the slant light is crepuscular.
Papers or not, you are a foreigner whose name is always difficult to spell.
You pack your one valise.
You ring the bell.
Might it not be prudent to disappear beneath that mauve-blue sky above the square fronting your cosmopolitan hotel? You know two short-cuts to the train station which could get you there, on foot, in time.
The person who's apprised of your intention and seems to be your traveling companion is merely the detritus of a dream.
You cross the lobby and go out alone.
You crossed the lobby and went out alone through the square, where two red-headed girls played hopscotch on a chalk grid, now in the shade, of a broad-leafed plane tree, now in the sun.
The lively, lovely, widowed afternoon disarmed, uncoupled, shuffled and disarrayed itself; despite itself, dismayed you with your certainties, your visa, gone from your breast-pocket, or perhaps expired.
At the reception desk, no one inquired if you'd be returning.
Now you wonder why.
When the stout conductor comes down the aisle mustached, red-faced, at first jovial, and asks for your passport, what will you say? When they ask for your passport, will you say that town's name they'd find unpronounceable which resonates, when uttered, like a bell in your mind's tower, as it did the day you carried your green schoolbag down the gray fog-cobbled street, past church, bakery, shul past farm women setting up market stalls it was so early.
"I am on my way to school in .
" You were part of the town now, not the furnished rooms you shared with Mutti, since the others disappeared.
Your knees were red with cold; your itchy wool socks had inched down, so you stooped to pull them up, a student and a citizen.
You are a student and a citizen of whatever state is transient.
You are no more or less the resident of a hotel than you were of that town whose borders were disputed and redrawn.
A prince conceded to a president.
Another language became relevant to merchants on that street a child walked down whom you remember, in the corridors of cities you inhabit, polyglot as the distinguished scholar you were not to be.
A slight accent sets you apart, but it would mark you on that peddlers'-cart street now.
Which language, after all, is yours? Which language, after all these streets, is yours, and why are you here, waiting for a train? You could have run a hot bath, read Montaigne.
But would footsteps beyond the bathroom door's bolt have disturbed the nondescript interior's familiarity, shadowed the plain blue draperies? You reflect, you know no one who would, of you, echo your author's "Because it was he; because it was I," as a unique friendship's non sequitur.
No footsteps and no friend: that makes you free.
The train approaches, wreathed in smoke like fur around the shoulders of a dowager with no time for sentimentality.
With no time for sentimentality, mulling a twice-postponed book-review, you take an empty seat.
Opposite you a voluble immigrant family is already unwrapping garlicky sausages—an unshaven man and his two red-eared sons.
You once wrote: it is true, awful, and unimportant, finally that if the opportunity occurs some of the exiles become storm-troopers; and you try, culpably, to project these three into some torch-lit future, filtering out their wrangling (one of your languages) about the next canto in their short odyssey.
The next canto in your short odyssey will open, you know this, in yet another hotel room.
They have become your mother country: benevolent anonymity of rough starched sheets, dim lamp, rickety escritoire, one window.
Your neighbors gather up their crusts and rinds.
Out of a leather satchel, the man takes their frayed identity cards, examines them.
The sons watch, pale and less talkative.
A border, passport control, draw near: rubber stamp or interrogation? You hope the customs officer lunched well; reflect on the recurrent implication of the dream's forfeit.
One night in jail?
Written by Theodore Roethke | Create an image from this poem

Dolor

 I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight,
All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplication of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions, Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica, Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium, Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows, Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Foreigner

 Have at you, you Devils!
My back's to this tree,
For you're nothing so nice
That the hind-side of me
Would escape your assault.
Come on now, all three! Here's a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point, And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint.
A spatter of blood, man! That's just to anoint And make supple your limbs.
'Tis a pity the silk Of your waistcoat is stained.
Why! Your heart's full of milk, And so full, it spills over! I'm not of your ilk.
You said so, and laughed At my old-fashioned hose, At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose.
To carve it to pattern I think you propose.
Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my sword Are proving themselves In quite perfect accord.
I grieve to have spotted Your shirt.
On my word! And hullo! You Bully! That blade's not a stick To slash right and left, And my skull is too thick To be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword.
Now a lick Down the side of your face.
What a pretty, red line! Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour.
Don't whine That a stranger has marked you.
* * * * * The tree's there, You Swine! Did you think to get in At the back, while your friends Made a little diversion In front? So it ends, With your sword clattering down On the ground.
'Tis amends I make for your courteous Reception of me, A foreigner, landed From over the sea.
Your welcome was fervent I think you'll agree.
My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare! So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men's can.
I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree! Here's at you, once more.
You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door, And jeer at my ways, But you're pinked to the core.
And before I have done, I will prick my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white skin Shall be printed with me.
For I've come here to win!


Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Ashantee War

 'Twas in the year of 1874, and on New Year's Day,
The British Army landed at Elmina without dismay,
And numbering in all, 1400 bayonets strong,
And all along the Cape Coast they fearlessly marched along,
Under the command of Sir Garnet Wolseley, a hero bold,
And an honour to his King and country, be it told.
And between them and Coomassie, lay a wilderness of jungle, But they marched on boldly without making a stumble, And under a tropical sun, upwards of an hundred miles, While their bayonets shone bright as they marched on in files.
Coomassie had to be reached and King Coffee's power destroyed, And, before that was done the British were greatly annoyed, Lieutenant Lord Gifford, with his men gained the Crest of the Adenisi Hills, And when they gained the top, with joy their hearts fills.
Sir John McLeod was appointed General of the Black Brigade; And a great slaughter of the enemy they made, And took possession of an Ashantee village, And fought like lions in a fearful rage.
While the British troops most firmly stood, And advanced against a savage horde concealed in a wood, Yet the men never flinched, but entered the wood fearlessly, And all at once the silence was broken by a roar of musketry.
And now the fight began in real earnest, And the Black Watch men resolved to do their best, While the enemy were ambushed in the midst of the wood, Yet the Highlanders their ground firmly stood.
And the roar of the musketry spread through the jungle, Still the men crept on without making a stumble, And many of the Black Watch fell wounded and dead, And Major Macpherson was wounded, but he rallied his men without dread.
The battle raged for five hours, but the Highlanders were gaining ground, Until the bagpipes struck up their wild clarion sound, Then the dusky warriors fled in amazement profound, Because their comrades were falling on every side around.
Sir Archibald Alison led on the Highland Brigade, And great havoc amongst the enemy they made, And village after village they captured and destroyed, Until King Coffee lost heart and felt greatly annoyed.
Sir John McLeod took the command of his own regiment, And with a swinging pace into the jaws of death they went, Fearlessly firing by companies in rotation, Add dashed into a double Zone of Fire without hesitation.
And in that manner the Black Watch pressed onward, And the enemy were powerless their progress to retard, Because their glittering bayonets were brought into play, And panic stricken the savage warriors fled in great dismay.
Then Sir Garnet Wolseley with his men entered Coomassie at night, Supported by half the rifles and Highlanders- a most beautiful sight, And King Coffee and his army had fled, And thousands of his men on the field were left dead.
And King Coffee, he was crushed at last, And the poor King felt very downcast, And his sorrow was really profound, When he heard that Coomassie was burned to the ground.
Then the British embarked for England without delay, And with joy their hearts felt gay, And by the end of March they reached England, And the reception they received was very grand.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

These -- saw Visions --

 These -- saw Visions --
Latch them softly --
These -- held Dimples --
Smooth them slow --
This -- addressed departing accents --
Quick -- Sweet Mouth -- to miss thee so --

This -- We stroked --
Unnumbered Satin --
These -- we held among our own --
Fingers of the Slim Aurora --
Not so arrogant -- this Noon --

These -- adjust -- that ran to meet us --
Pearl -- for Stocking -- Pearl for Shoe --
Paradise -- the only Palace
Fit for Her reception -- now --

Book: Reflection on the Important Things