10 Best Famous Reprobate Poems

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

• All Famous Reprobate Poems

 AN we suppress the old Remorse 
Who bends our heart beneath his stroke, 
Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse, 
Or as the acorn on the oak? 
Can we suppress the old Remorse? 

Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell, 
May we drown this our ancient foe, 
Destructive glutton, gorging well, 
Patient as the ants, and slow? 
What wine, what philtre, or what spell? 

Tell it, enchantress, if you can, 
Tell me, with anguish overcast, 
Wounded, as a dying man, 
Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past. 
Tell it, enchantress, if you can, 

To him the wolf already tears 
Who sees the carrion pinions wave, 
This broken warrior who despairs 
To have a cross above his grave-- 
This wretch the wolf already tears. 

Can one illume a leaden sky, 
Or tear apart the shadowy veil 
Thicker than pitch, no star on high, 
Not one funereal glimmer pale 
Can one illume a leaden sky? 

Hope lit the windows of the Inn, 
But now that shining flame is dead; 
And how shall martyred pilgrims win 
Along the moonless road they tread? 
Satan has darkened all the Inn! 

Witch, do you love accurs?d hearts? 
Say, do you know, the reprobate? 
Know you Remorse, whose venomed darts 
Make souls the targets of their hate? 
Witch, do you know accurs?d hearts? 

The Might-have-been with tooth accursed 
Gnaws at the piteous souls of men, 
The deep foundations suffer first, 
And all the structure crumbles then 
Beneath the bitter tooth accursed. 

II.

Often, when seated at the play, 
And sonorous music lights the stage, 
I see the frail hand of a Fay 
With magic dawn illume the rage 
Of the dark sky. Oft at the play 

A being made of gauze and fire 
Casts to the earth a Demon great. 
And my heart, whence all hopes expire, 
Is like a stage where I await, 
In vain, the Fay with wings of fire!

 ("Avez-vous oui dire?") 
 
 {LES BURGRAVES, Part I., March, 1843.} 


 JOB. Hast thou ne'er heard men say 
 That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire, 
 Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains, 
 A castle stands, renowned among all castles? 
 And in this fort, on piles of lava built, 
 A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed? 
 Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws— 
 Charged with a thousand crimes—for warlike deeds 
 Renowned—and placed under the Empire's ban 
 By the Diet of Frankfort; by the Council 
 Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church; 
 Reprobate, isolated, cursed—yet still 
 Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; 
 The bitter foe of the Count Palatine 
 And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned 
 For sixty years the ladder which the Empire 
 Upreared to scale his walls? Hast heard that he 
 Shelters the brave—the flaunting rich man strips— 
 Of master makes a slave? That here, above 
 All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors—in the eyes 
 Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey, 
 He rears upon his tower, in stern defiance, 
 A signal of appeal to the crushed people, 
 A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue, 
 Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath, 
 So that kings quiver as the jades at whips? 
 Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year— 
 And that, defying fate, in face of heaven, 
 On his invincible peak, no force of war 
 Uprooting other holds—nor powerful Cæsar— 
 Nor Rome—nor age, that bows the pride of man— 
 Nor aught on earth—hath vanquished, or subdued, 
 Or bent this ancient Titan of the Rhine, 
 The excommunicated Job? 
 
 Democratic Review. 


 

 Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice;
Aye, Parson says it's wrong,
Yet for my pleasing I'll suffice
With Women, Wine and Song.
But though it be with jocund glee
my tavern voice is ringing,
Had I to chuck on of the three,
By gad! I'd give up singing.

Bu not the vine. What draught divine
Could better souse my throttle?
God never meant that mellow wine
Should languish in the bottle.
So Cellerman, your best bring up;
Let silver cobwebs mist it;
When gold or ruby brims the cup,
Could even saint resist it?

I love the ladies, yes, I do,
I always did and will;
I like with dainty dames to coo,
And have been known to bill.
Yes, I agree it's wrong of me,
So call me grey rapscallion,
But when a lusty lass I see
I whinny like a stallion.

Oh let me be a reprobate,
Your canting care defying;
I'll court that gay triumvirate
Right to the day I'm dying.
So troll until the rafter rings,
And may my life be long
To praise the Lord for precious things
like Women, Wine and Song.

 Whenever I go by there nowadays 
And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass, 
The torn blue curtains and the broken glass, 
I seem to be afraid of the old place; 
And something stiffens up and down my face,
For all the world as if I saw the ghost 
Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host, 
With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze. 

The Tavern has a story, but no man 
Can tell us what it is. We only know
That once long after midnight, years ago, 
A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town, 
Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran 
That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown.