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Best Famous Resume Poems

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Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Power of Love

 Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
Thus, alone, such strife to bear --
Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing --
Death, and Madness, and Despair! 
'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
Health, and hope, and fortitude,
But for love, had long since failed me;
Heart and soul had sunk subdued.
Often, in my wild impatience, I have lost my trust in Heaven, And my soul has tossed and struggled, Like a vessel tempest-driven; But the voice of my beloved In my ear has seemed to say -- 'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!' And the storm has passed away.
When outworn with weary thinking, Sight and thought were waxing dim, And my mind began to wander, And my brain began to swim, Then those hands outstretched to save me Seemed to call me back again -- Those dark eyes did so implore me To resume my reason's reign, That I could not but remember How her hopes were fixed on me, And, with one determined effort, Rose, and shook my spirit free.
When hope leaves my weary spirit -- All the power to hold it gone -- That loved voice so loudly prays me, 'For my sake, keep hoping on,' That, at once my strength renewing, Though Despair had crushed me down, I can burst his bonds asunder, And defy his deadliest frown.
When, from nights of restless tossing, Days of gloom and pining care, Pain and weakness, still increasing, Seem to whisper 'Death is near,' And I almost bid him welcome, Knowing he would bring release, Weary of this restless struggle -- Longing to repose in peace, Then a glance of fond reproval Bids such selfish longings flee And a voice of matchless music Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!' Roused to newborn strength and courage, Pain and grief, I cast away, Health and life, I keenly follow, Mighty Death is held at bay.
Yes, my love, I will be patient! Firm and bold my heart shall be: Fear not -- though this life is dreary, I can bear it well for thee.
Let our foes still rain upon me Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn; 'Tis for thee their hate pursues me, And for thee, it shall be borne!


Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

On Imagination

 Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,
 How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!
Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Helicon's refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: >From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd: Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou; At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high: >From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies, While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me to aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
Written by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden | Create an image from this poem

September 1, 1939

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Supernatural Songs

 I.
Ribh at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn Because you have found me in the pitch-dark night With open book you ask me what I do.
Mark and digest my tale, carry it afar To those that never saw this tonsured head Nor heard this voice that ninety years have cracked.
Of Baile and Aillinn you need not speak, All know their tale, all know what leaf and twig, What juncture of the apple and the yew, Surmount their bones; but speak what none have heard.
The miracle that gave them such a death Transfigured to pure substance what had once Been bone and sinew; when such bodies join There is no touching here, nor touching there, Nor straining joy, but whole is joined to whole; For the intercourse of angels is a light Where for its moment both seem lost, consumed.
Here in the pitch-dark atmosphere above The trembling of the apple and the yew, Here on the anniversary of their death, The anniversary of their first embrace, Those lovers, purified by tragedy, Hurry into each other's arms; these eyes, By water, herb and solitary prayer Made aquiline, are open to that light.
Though somewhat broken by the leaves, that light Lies in a circle on the grass; therein I turn the pages of my holy book.
II.
Ribh denounces Patrick An abstract Greek absurdity has crazed the man - Recall that masculine Trinity.
Man, woman, child (daughter or son), That's how all natural or supernatural stories run.
Natural and supernatural with the self-same ring are wed.
As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said.
Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind; When the conflagration of their passion sinks, damped by the body or the mind, That juggling nature mounts, her coil in their embraces twined.
The mirror-scaled serpent is multiplicity, But all that run in couples, on earth, in flood or air, share God that is but three, And could beget or bear themselves could they but love as He.
III.
Ribh in Ecstasy What matter that you understood no word! Doubtless I spoke or sang what I had heard In broken sentences.
My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground.
Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead.
Some shadow fell.
My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
IV.
There There all the barrel-hoops are knit, There all the serpent-tails are bit, There all the gyres converge in one, There all the planets drop in the Sun.
V.
Ribh considers Christian Love insufficient Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit.
I study hatred with great diligence, For that's a passion in my own control, A sort of besom that can clear the soul Of everything that is not mind or sense.
Why do I hate man, woman or event? That is a light my jealous soul has sent.
From terror and deception freed it can Discover impurities, can show at last How soul may walk when all such things are past, How soul could walk before such things began.
Then my delivered soul herself shall learn A darker knowledge and in hatred turn From every thought of God mankind has had.
Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
At stroke of midnight soul cannot endure A bodily or mental furniture.
What can she take until her Master give! Where can she look until He make the show! What can she know until He bid her know! How can she live till in her blood He live! VI.
He and She As the moon sidles up Must she sidle up, As trips the scared moon Away must she trip: 'His light had struck me blind Dared I stop".
She sings as the moon sings: 'I am I, am I; The greater grows my light The further that I fly.
' All creation shivers With that sweet cry.
VII.
What Magic Drum? He holds him from desire, all but stops his breathing lest primordial Motherhood forsake his limbs, the child no longer rest, Drinking joy as it were milk upon his breast.
Through light-obliterating garden foliage what magic drum? Down limb and breast or down that glimmering belly move his mouth and sinewy tongue.
What from the forest came? What beast has licked its young? VIII.
Whence had they come? Eternity is passion, girl or boy Cry at the onset of their sexual joy 'For ever and for ever'; then awake Ignorant what Dramatis personae spake; A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought; The Flagellant lashes those submissive loins Ignorant what that dramatist enjoins, What master made the lash.
Whence had they come, The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived? IX.
The Four Ages of Man He with body waged a fight, But body won; it walks upright.
Then he struggled with the heart; Innocence and peace depart.
Then he struggled with the mind; His proud heart he left behind.
Now his wars on God begin; At stroke of midnight God shall win.
X.
Conjunctions If Jupiter and Saturn meet, What a cop of mummy wheat! The sword's a cross; thereon He died: On breast of Mars the goddess sighed.
XI.
A Needle's Eye All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye; Things unborn, things that are gone, From needle's eye still goad it on.
XII.
Meru Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a mle, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion; but man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality: Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome! Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest, Caverned in night under the drifted snow, Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blast Beat down upon their naked bodies, know That day brings round the night, that before dawn His glory and his monuments are gone.
Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

An Hymn to the Morning

Attend my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day: Calliope awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire: The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
See in the east th' illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades away-- But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong, And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.


Written by Gwendolyn Brooks | Create an image from this poem

My Dreams My Works Must Wait Till After Hell

 I hold my honey and I store my bread 
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry.
I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait, The puny light.
I keep my eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem

Summer

 Remember the days of our first happiness,
how strong we were, how dazed by passion,
lying all day, then all night in the narrow bed,
sleeping there, eating there too: it was summer,
it seemed everything had ripened
at once.
And so hot we lay completely uncovered.
Sometimes the wind rose; a willow brushed the window.
But we were lost in a way, didn't you feel that? The bed was like a raft; I felt us drifting far from our natures, toward a place where we'd discover nothing.
First the sun, then the moon, in fragments, stone through the willow.
Things anyone could see.
Then the circles closed.
Slowly the nights grew cool; the pendant leaves of the willow yellowed and fell.
And in each of us began a deep isolation, though we never spoke of this, of the absence of regret.
We were artists again, my husband.
We could resume the journey.
Written by Hart Crane | Create an image from this poem

Carmen De Boheme

 Sinuously winding through the room 
On smokey tongues of sweetened cigarettes, -- 
Plaintive yet proud the cello tones resume 
The andante of smooth hopes and lost regrets.
Bright peacocks drink from flame-pots by the wall, Just as absinthe-sipping women shiver through With shimmering blue from the bowl in Circe's hall.
Their brown eyes blacken, and the blue drop hue.
The andante quivers with crescendo's start, And dies on fire's birth in each man's heart.
The tapestry betrays a finger through The slit, soft-pulling; -- -- -- and music follows cue.
There is a sweep, -- a shattering, -- a choir Disquieting of barbarous fantasy.
The pulse is in the ears, the heart is higher, And stretches up through mortal eyes to see.
Carmen! Akimbo arms and smouldering eyes; -- Carmen! Bestirring hope and lipping eyes; -- Carmen whirls, and music swirls and dips.
"Carmen!," comes awed from wine-hot lips.
Finale leaves in silence to replume Bent wings, and Carmen with her flaunts through the gloom Of whispering tapestry, brown with old fringe: -- The winers leave too, and the small lamps twinge.
Morning: and through the foggy city gate A gypsy wagon wiggles, striving straight.
And some dream still of Carmen's mystic face, -- Yellow, pallid, like ancient lace.
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem

Christmass

 Christmass is come and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now
Een want will dry its tears in mirth
And crown him wi a holly bough
Tho tramping neath a winters sky
Oer snow track paths and ryhmey stiles
The huswife sets her spining bye
And bids him welcome wi her smiles
Each house is swept the day before
And windows stuck wi evergreens
The snow is beesomd from the door
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes
Gilt holly wi its thorny pricks
And yew and box wi berrys small
These deck the unusd candlesticks
And pictures hanging by the wall

Neighbours resume their anual cheer
Wishing wi smiles and spirits high
Clad christmass and a happy year
To every morning passer bye
Milk maids their christmass journeys go
Accompanyd wi favourd swain
And childern pace the crumping snow
To taste their grannys cake again

Hung wi the ivys veining bough
The ash trees round the cottage farm
Are often stript of branches now
The cotters christmass hearth to warm
He swings and twists his hazel band
And lops them off wi sharpend hook
And oft brings ivy in his hand
To decorate the chimney nook

Old winter whipes his ides bye
And warms his fingers till he smiles
Where cottage hearths are blazing high
And labour resteth from his toils
Wi merry mirth beguiling care
Old customs keeping wi the day
Friends meet their christmass cheer to share
And pass it in a harmless way

Old customs O I love the sound
However simple they may be
What ere wi time has sanction found
Is welcome and is dear to me
Pride grows above simplicity
And spurns it from her haughty mind
And soon the poets song will be
The only refuge they can find

The shepherd now no more afraid
Since custom doth the chance bestow
Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
Beneath the branch of mizzletoe
That neath each cottage beam is seen
Wi pearl-like-berrys shining gay
The shadow still of what hath been
Which fashion yearly fades away

And singers too a merry throng
At early morn wi simple skill
Yet imitate the angels song
And chant their christmass ditty still
And mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits-in humings softly steals
The music of the village bells
Ringing round their merry peals

And when its past a merry crew
Bedeckt in masks and ribbons gay
The 'Morrice danse' their sports renew
And act their winter evening play
The clown-turnd-kings for penny praise
Storm wi the actors strut and swell
And harlequin a laugh to raise
Wears his hump back and tinkling bell

And oft for pence and spicy ale
Wi winter nosgays pind before
The wassail singer tells her tale
And drawls her christmass carrols oer
The prentice boy wi ruddy face
And ryhme bepowderd dancing locks
From door to door wi happy pace
Runs round to claim his 'christmass box'

The block behind the fire is put
To sanction customs old desires
And many a faggots bands are cut
For the old farmers christmass fires
Where loud tongd gladness joins the throng
And winter meets the warmth of may
Feeling by times the heat too strong
And rubs his shins and draws away

While snows the window panes bedim
The fire curls up a sunny charm
Where creaming oer the pitchers rim
The flowering ale is set to warm
Mirth full of joy as summer bees
Sits there its pleasures to impart
While childern tween their parents knees
Sing scraps of carrols oer by heart

And some to view the winter weathers
Climb up the window seat wi glee
Likening the snow to falling feathers
In fancys infant extacy
Laughing wi superstitious love
Oer visions wild that youth supplyes
Of people pulling geese above
And keeping christmass in the skyes

As tho the homstead trees were drest
In lieu of snow wi dancing leaves
As.
tho the sundryd martins nest Instead of ides hung the eaves The childern hail the happy day As if the snow was april grass And pleasd as neath the warmth of may Sport oer the water froze to glass Thou day of happy sound and mirth That long wi childish memory stays How blest around the cottage hearth I met thee in my boyish days Harping wi raptures dreaming joys On presents that thy coming found The welcome sight of little toys The christmass gifts of comers round 'The wooden horse wi arching head Drawn upon wheels around the room The gilded coach of ginger bread And many colord sugar plumb Gilt coverd books for pictures sought Or storys childhood loves to tell Wi many a urgent promise bought To get tomorrows lesson well And many a thing a minutes sport Left broken on the sanded floor When we woud leave our play and court Our parents promises for more Tho manhood bids such raptures dye And throws such toys away as vain Yet memory loves to turn her eye And talk such pleasures oer again Around the glowing hearth at night The harmless laugh and winter tale Goes round-while parting friends delight To toast each other oer their ale The cotter oft wi quiet zeal Will musing oer his bible lean While in the dark the lovers steal To kiss and toy behind the screen The yule cake dotted thick wi plumbs Is on each supper table found And cats look up for falling crumbs Which greedy childern litter round And huswifes sage stuffd seasond chine Long hung in chimney nook to drye And boiling eldern berry wine To drink the christmass eves 'good bye'
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Poor Mans Lamb

 NOW spent the alter'd King, in am'rous Cares, 
The Hours of sacred Hymns and solemn Pray'rs: 
In vain the Alter waits his slow returns, 
Where unattended Incense faintly burns: 
In vain the whisp'ring Priests their Fears express, 
And of the Change a thousand Causes guess.
Heedless of all their Censures He retires, And in his Palace feeds his secret Fires; Impatient, till from Rabbah Tydings tell, That near those Walls the poor Uriah fell, Led to the Onset by a Chosen Few, Who at the treacherous Signal, soon withdrew; Nor to his Rescue e'er return'd again, Till by fierce Ammon's Sword they saw the Victim slain.
'Tis pass'd, 'tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot, Too strong to be unty'd, at last is cut.
And now to Bathsheba the King declares, That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers; That Israel's Throne, and longing Monarch's Arms Are to be fill'd but with her widow'd Charms.
Nor must the Days of formal Tears exceed, To cross the Living, and abuse the Dead.
This she denies; and signs of Grief are worn; But mourns no more than may her Face adorn, Give to those Eyes, which Love and Empire fir'd, A melting Softness more to be desir'd; Till the fixt Time, tho' hard to be endur'd, Was pass'd, and a sad Consort's Name procur'd: When, with the Pomp that suits a Prince's Thought, By Passion sway'd, and glorious Woman taught, A Queen she's made, than Michal seated higher, Whilst light unusual Airs prophane the hallow'd Lyre.
Where art thou Nathan? where's that Spirit now, Giv'n to brave Vice, tho' on a Prince's Brow? In what low Cave, or on what Desert Coast, Now Virtue wants it, is thy Presence lost? But lo! he comes, the Rev'rend Bard appears, Defil'd with Dust his awful silver Hairs, And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears.
The King this mark'd, and conscious wou'd have fled, The healing Balm which for his Wounds was shed: Till the more wary Priest the Serpents Art, Join'd to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart, And thus retards the Prince just ready now to part.
Hear me, the Cause betwixt two Neighbors hear, Thou, who for Justice dost the Sceptre bear: Help the Opprest, nor let me weep alone For him, that calls for Succour from the Throne.
Good Princes for Protection are Ador'd, And Greater by the Shield, than by the Sword.
This clears the Doubt, and now no more he fears The Cause his Own, and therefore stays and hears: When thus the Prophet: – –In a flow'ry Plain A King-like Man does in full Plenty reign; Casts round his Eyes, in vain, to reach the Bound, Which Jordan's Flood sets to his fertile Ground: Countless his Flocks, whilst Lebanon contains A Herd as large, kept by his numerous Swains, That fill with morning Bellowings the cool Air, And to the Cedar's shade at scorching Noon repair.
Near to this Wood a lowly Cottage stands, Built by the humble Owner's painful Hands; Fenc'd by a Stubble-roof, from Rain and Heat, Secur'd without, within all Plain and Neat.
A Field of small Extent surrounds the Place, In which One single Ewe did sport and graze: This his whole Stock, till in full time there came, To bless his utmost Hopes, a snowy Lamb; Which, lest the Season yet too Cold might prove, And Northern Blasts annoy it from the Grove, Or tow'ring Fowl on the weak Prey might sieze, (For with his Store his Fears must too increase) He brings it Home, and lays it by his Side, At once his Wealth, his Pleasure and his Pride; Still bars the Door, by Labour call'd away, And, when returning at the Close of Day, With One small Mess himself, and that sustains, And half his Dish it shares, and half his slender Gains.
When to the great Man's table now there comes A Lord as great, follow'd by hungry Grooms: For these must be provided sundry Meats, The best for Some, for Others coarser Cates.
One Servant, diligent above the rest To help his Master to contrive the Feast, Extols the Lamb was nourished with such Care, So fed, so lodg'd, it must be Princely Fare; And having this, my Lord his own may spare.
In haste he sends, led by no Law, but Will, Not to entreat, or purchase, but to Kill.
The Messenger's arriv'd: the harmless Spoil, Unus'd to fly, runs Bleating to the Toil: Whilst for the Innocent the Owner fear'd, And, sure wou'd move, cou'd Poverty be heard.
Oh spare (he cries) the Product of my Cares, My Stock's Encrease, the Blessing on my Pray'rs; My growing Hope, and Treasure of my Life! More was he speaking, when the murd'ring Knife Shew'd him, his Suit, tho' just, must be deny'd, And the white Fleece in its own Scarlet dy'd; Whilst the poor helpless Wretch stands weeping by, And lifts his Hands for Justice to the Sky.
Which he shall find, th' incensed King replies, When for the proud Offence th' Oppressor dies.
O Nathan! by the Holy Name I swear, Our Land such Wrongs unpunished shall not bear If, with the Fault, th' Offender thou declare.
To whom the Prophet, closing with the Time, Thou art the Man replies, and thine th' ill-natur'd Crime.
Nor think, against thy Place, or State, I err; A Pow'r above thee does this Charge prefer; Urg'd by whose Spirit, hither am I brought T' expostulate his Goodness and thy Fault; To lead thee back to those forgotten Years, In Labour spent, and lowly Rustick Cares, When in the Wilderness thy Flocks but few, Thou didst the Shepherd's simple Art pursue Thro' crusting Frosts, and penetrating Dew: Till wondring Jesse saw six Brothers past, And Thou Elected, Thou the Least and Last; A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey'd, And in thy Bosom Royal Beauties laid; A lovely Princess made thy Prize that Day, When on the shaken Ground the Giant lay Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries That bore thy shouted Fame to list'ning Skies, And drove the flying Foe as fast away, As Winds, of old, Locusts to Egypt's Sea.
Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown, Th' All-giving Hand of Heav'n did largely crown, Whilst yet thy Cheek was spread with youthful Down.
What more cou'd craving Man of God implore? Or what for favour'd Man cou'd God do more? Yet cou'd not These, nor Israel's Throne, suffice Intemp'rate Wishes, drawn thro' wand'ring Eyes.
One Beauty (not thy own) and seen by chance, Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance; Chafes the Spirit, fed by sacred Art, And blots the Title AFTER GOD'S OWN HEART; Black Murder breeds to level at his Head, Who boasts so fair a Part'ner of his Bed, Nor longer must possess those envy'd Charms, The single Treasure of his House, and Arms: Giving, by this thy Fall, cause to Blaspheme To all the Heathen the Almighty Name.
For which the Sword shall still thy Race pursue, And, in revolted Israel's scornful View, Thy captiv'd Wives shall be in Triumph led Unto a bold Usurper's shameful Bed; Who from thy Bowels sprung shall seize thy Throne, And scourge thee by a Sin beyond thy own.
Thou hast thy Fault in secret Darkness done; But this the World shall see before the Noonday's Sun.
Enough! the King, enough! the Saint replies, And pours his swift Repentance from his Eyes; Falls on the Ground, and tears the Nuptial Vest, By which his Crime's Completion was exprest: Then with a Sigh blasting to Carnal Love, Drawn deep as Hell, and piercing Heaven, above Let Me (he cries) let Me attend his Rod, For I have sinn'd, for I have lost my God.
Hold! (says the Prophet ) of that Speech beware, God ne'er was lost, unless by Man's Despair.
The Wound that is thus willingly reveal'd, Th' Almighty is as willing should be heal'd.
Thus wash'd in Tears, thy Soul as fair does show As the first Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow, Or on the Mountain's top the lately fallen Snow.
Yet to the World that Justice may appear Acting her Part impartial, and severe, The Offspring of thy Sin shall soon resign That Life, for which thou must not once repine; But with submissive Grief his Fate deplore, And bless the Hand, that does inflict no more.
Shall I then pay but Part, and owe the Whole? My Body's Fruit, for my offending Soul? Shall I no more endure (the King demands) And 'scape thus lightly his offended Hands? Oh! let him All resume, my Crown, my Fame; Reduce me to the Nothing, whence I came; Call back his Favours, faster than he gave; And, if but Pardon'd, strip me to my Grave: Since (tho' he seems to Lose ) He surely Wins, Who gives but earthly Comforts for his Sins.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things