10 Best Famous Sluggard Poems

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

• All Famous Sluggard Poems

 Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: 
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, 
A silly sheep benighted from the fold, 
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot. 
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, 
Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; 
Lest you with me should shiver on the wold, 
Athirst and hungering on a barren spot. 
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, 
I live alone, I look to die alone: 
Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, 
Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, 
My heart goes sighing after swallows flown 
On sometime summer's unreturning track.

 And one of the elders of the city said, "Speak to us of Good and Evil." 

And he answered: 

Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. 

For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? 

Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters. 

You are good when you are one with yourself. 

Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil. 

For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house. 

And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom. 

You are good when you strive to give of yourself. 

Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself. 

For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast. 

Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, "Be like me, ripe and full and ever giving of your abundance." 

For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root. 

You are good when you are fully awake in your speech, 

Yet you are not evil when you sleep while your tongue staggers without purpose. 

And even stumbling speech may strengthen a weak tongue. 

You are good when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. 

Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping. 

Even those who limp go not backward. 

But you who are strong and swift, see that you do not limp before the lame, deeming it kindness. 

You are good in countless ways, and you are not evil when you are not good, 

You are only loitering and sluggard. 

Pity that the stags cannot teach swiftness to the turtles. 

In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you. 

But in some of you that longing is a torrent rushing with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest. 

And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore. 

But let not him who longs much say to him who longs little, "Wherefore are you slow and halting?" 

For the truly good ask not the naked, "Where is your garment?" nor the houseless, "What has befallen your house?"

CANZONE VI.
 
Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi.
 
TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY.
 
 
Spirit heroic! who with fire divineKindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim holdOn earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thineRome and her wandering children to confine,And yet reclaim her to the old good way:To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a rayOf virtue can I find, extinct below,Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.Why Italy still waits, and what her aimI know not, callous to her proper woe,Indolent, aged, slow,Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.
 
So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'erShe yet will waken from her heavy sleep:But not, methinks, without some better endWas this our Rome entrusted to thy care,Who surest may revive and best defend.Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread,And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust,[Pg 55]That, if her sons yet turn.And their eyes ever to true honour raise.The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!
 
Her ancient walls, which still with fear and loveThe world admires, whene'er it calls to mindThe days of Eld, and turns to look behind;Her hoar and cavern'd monuments aboveThe dust of men, whose fame, until the worldIn dissolution sink, can never fail;Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd,Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail.O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:And how his laurell'd crest,Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!
 
And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,And their mere mortal frames have left below,Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,Which kills all confidence, nips every good,Which bars the way to many a roof, where menOnce holy, hospitable lived, the denOf fearless rapine now and frequent blood,Whose doors to virtue only are denied.While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanesPlots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;And, contrast sad and wide,The very bells which sweetly wont to flingSummons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring!
 
Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowdOf tender years, infirm and desolate Age,Which hates itself and its superfluous days,With each blest order to religion vow'd,Whom works of love through lives of want engage,To thee for help their hands and voices raise;While our poor panic-stricken land displaysThe thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,That e'en from foes compassion they command;Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a hand[Pg 56]Moves to subdue the flame:—Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!
 
Often against our marble Column highWolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base SnakeEven to their own injury insult shower;Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,The noble Dame who calls thee here to breakAway the evil weeds which will not flower.A thousand years and more! and gallant menThere fix'd her seat in beauty and in power;The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then!And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends,Her husband, father thou!Like care from thee and counsel she attends,As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.
 
'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemeSome adverse fortune will not mix, and marWith instant ill ambition's noblest dreams;But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that IMay pardon her past faults, great as they are,If now at least she give herself the lie.For never, in all memory, as to thee,To mortal man so sure and straight the wayOf everlasting honour open lay,For thine the power and will, if right I see,To lift our empire to its old proud state.Let this thy glory be!They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great,He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the boldTarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,The chief, by general Italy revered,Tell him from me, to whom he is but knownAs one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,That, day by day to thee,With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.
 
Macgregor.

 A jar of cider and my pipe, 
In summer, under shady tree; 
A book by one that made his mind 
Live by its sweet simplicity: 
Then must I laugh at kings who sit 
In richest chambers, signing scrolls; 
And princes cheered in public ways, 
And stared at by a thousand fools.

Let me be free to wear my dreams, 
Like weeds in some mad maiden's hair, 
When she believes the earth has not 
Another maid so rich and fair; 
And proudly smiles on rich and poor, 
The queen of all fair women then: 
So I, dressen in my idle dreams, 
Will think myself the king of men.

 When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, 
And across the distant timber you can SEE the flowing heat; 
When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is wide, 
And it's fifteen miles to water in the scrub the other side -- 
Don't give up, don't be down-hearted, to a man's strong heart be true! 
Take the air in through your nostrils, set your lips and see it through -- 
For it can't go on for ever, and -- `I'll have my day!' says you. 

When you're camping in the mulga, and the rain is falling slow, 
While you nurse your rheumatism 'neath a patch of calico; 
Short of tucker or tobacco, short of sugar or of tea, 
And the scrubs are dark and dismal, and the plains are like a sea; 
Don't give up and be down-hearted -- to the soul of man be true! 
Grin! if you've a mate to grin for, grin and jest and don't look blue; 
For it can't go on for ever, and -- `I'll rise some day,' says you. 

When you've tramped the Sydney pavements till you've counted all the flags, 
And your flapping boot-soles trip you, and your clothes are mostly rags, 
When you're called a city loafer, shunned, abused, moved on, despised -- 
Fifty hungry beggars after every job that's advertised -- 
Don't be beaten! Hold your head up! To your wretched self be true; 
Set your pride to fight your hunger! Be a MAN in all you do! 
For it cannot last for ever -- `I will rise again!' says you. 

When you're dossing out in winter, in the darkness and the rain, 
Crouching, cramped, and cold and hungry 'neath a seat in The Domain, 
And a cloaked policeman stirs you with that mighty foot of his -- 
`Phwat d'ye mane? Phwat's this? 
Who are ye? Come, move on -- git out av this!' 
Don't get mad; 'twere only foolish; there is nought that you can do, 
Save to mark his beat and time him -- find another hole or two; 
But it can't go on for ever -- `I'll have money yet!' says you. 

Bother not about the morrow, for sufficient to the day 
Is the evil (rather more so). Put your trust in God and pray! 
Study well the ant, thou sluggard. Blessed are the meek and low. 
Ponder calmly on the lilies -- how they idle, how they grow. 
A man's a man! Obey your masters! Do not blame the proud and fat, 
For the poor are always with them, and they cannot alter that. 
Lay your treasures up in Heaven -- cling to life and see it through! 
For it cannot last for ever -- `I shall die some day,' says you.

 When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, 
And across the distant timber you can SEE the flowing heat; 
When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is wide, 
And it's fifteen miles to water in the scrub the other side -- 
Don't give up, don't be down-hearted, to a man's strong heart be true! 
Take the air in through your nostrils, set your lips and see it through -- 
For it can't go on for ever, and -- `I'll have my day!' says you. 

When you're camping in the mulga, and the rain is falling slow, 
While you nurse your rheumatism 'neath a patch of calico; 
Short of tucker or tobacco, short of sugar or of tea, 
And the scrubs are dark and dismal, and the plains are like a sea; 
Don't give up and be down-hearted -- to the soul of man be true! 
Grin! if you've a mate to grin for, grin and jest and don't look blue; 
For it can't go on for ever, and -- `I'll rise some day,' says you. 

When you've tramped the Sydney pavements till you've counted all the flags, 
And your flapping boot-soles trip you, and your clothes are mostly rags, 
When you're called a city loafer, shunned, abused, moved on, despised -- 
Fifty hungry beggars after every job that's advertised -- 
Don't be beaten! Hold your head up! To your wretched self be true; 
Set your pride to fight your hunger! Be a MAN in all you do! 
For it cannot last for ever -- `I will rise again!' says you. 

When you're dossing out in winter, in the darkness and the rain, 
Crouching, cramped, and cold and hungry 'neath a seat in The Domain, 
And a cloaked policeman stirs you with that mighty foot of his -- 
`Phwat d'ye mane? Phwat's this? 
Who are ye? Come, move on -- git out av this!' 
Don't get mad; 'twere only foolish; there is nought that you can do, 
Save to mark his beat and time him -- find another hole or two; 
But it can't go on for ever -- `I'll have money yet!' says you. 

. . . . . 

Bother not about the morrow, for sufficient to the day 
Is the evil (rather more so). Put your trust in God and pray! 
Study well the ant, thou sluggard. Blessed are the meek and low. 
Ponder calmly on the lilies -- how they idle, how they grow. 
A man's a man! Obey your masters! Do not blame the proud and fat, 
For the poor are always with them, and they cannot alter that. 
Lay your treasures up in Heaven -- cling to life and see it through! 
For it cannot last for ever -- `I shall die some day,' says you.