Best Famous Tramples Poems

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Written by Charlotte Bronte | Pilates Wifes Dream I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­ The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring From street to street, not loud, but through the night Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, It stands up like a column, straight and high. I see it all­I know the dusky sign­ A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; Surely some oracle has been with me, The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, To warn an unjust judge of destiny: I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move; Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead. Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­ He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour­although I be his wife­ He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy­ I see him as he is­without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? And have I not his red salute withstood ? Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while, His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause. What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, There he lived famished­there methought he died; But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; I said I had no tears for such as he, And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. More I recall not, yet the vision spread Into a world remote, an age to come­ And still the illumined name of Jesus shed A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ And still I saw that sign, which now I see, That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! How straight and stainless is his life's career ! The ray of Deity that rests on him, In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay; The searching soul demands a purer light To guide it on its upward, onward way; Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled, Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan And sever from the wheat; but will his faith Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? * * * * * I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, Which I so wished for when shut in by night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! This day, time travails with a mighty birth, This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, Ere night descends, I shall more surely know What guide to follow, in what path to go; I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | Our Mother Pocahontas (Note: — Pocahontas is buried at Gravesend, England.) "Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May — did she wonder? does she remember — in the dust — in the cool tombs?" CARL SANDBURG. I Powhatan was conqueror, Powhatan was emperor. He was akin to wolf and bee, Brother of the hickory tree. Son of the red lightning stroke And the lightning-shivered oak. His panther-grace bloomed in the maid Who laughed among the winds and played In excellence of savage pride, Wooing the forest, open-eyed, In the springtime, In Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas. Her skin was rosy copper-red. And high she held her beauteous head. Her step was like a rustling leaf: Her heart a nest, untouched of grief. She dreamed of sons like Powhatan, And through her blood the lightning ran. Love-cries with the birds she sung, Birdlike In the grape-vine swung. The Forest, arching low and wide Gloried in its Indian bride. Rolfe, that dim adventurer Had not come a courtier. John Rolfe is not our ancestor. We rise from out the soul of her Held in native wonderland, While the sun's rays kissed her hand, In the springtime, In Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas. II She heard the forest talking, Across the sea came walking, And traced the paths of Daniel Boone, Then westward chased the painted moon. She passed with wild young feet On to Kansas wheat, On to the miners' west, The echoing cañons' guest, Then the Pacific sand, Waking, Thrilling, The midnight land.... On Adams street and Jefferson — Flames coming up from the ground! On Jackson street and Washington — Flames coming up from the ground! And why, until the dawning sun Are flames coming up from the ground? Because, through drowsy Springfield sped This red-skin queen, with feathered head, With winds and stars, that pay her court And leaping beasts, that make her sport; Because, gray Europe's rags august She tramples in the dust; Because we are her fields of corn; Because our fires are all reborn From her bosom's deathless embers, Flaming As she remembers The springtime And Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas. III We here renounce our Saxon blood. Tomorrow's hopes, an April flood Come roaring in. The newest race Is born of her resilient grace. We here renounce our Teuton pride: Our Norse and Slavic boasts have died: Italian dreams are swept away, And Celtic feuds are lost today.... She sings of lilacs, maples, wheat, Her own soil sings beneath her feet, Of springtime And Virginia, Our Mother, Pocahontas.

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | From Adonais 49-52 49 Go thou to Rome,--at once the Paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread; 50 And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 51 Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? 52 The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.--Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is fled!--Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

Written by Philip Freneau | The Republican Genius of Europe Emporers and kings! in vain you strive Your torments to conceal-- The age is come that shakes your thrones, Tramples in dust despotic crowns, And bids the sceptre fail. In western worlds the flame began: From thence to France it flew-- Through Europe, now, it takes its way, Beams an insufferable day, And lays all tyrants low. Genius fo France! pursue the chace Till Reason's laws restore Man to be Man, in every clime;-- That Being, active, great, sublime Debas'd in dust no more. In dreadful pomp he takes his way O'er ruin'd crowns, demolish'd thrones-- Pale tyrants shrink before his blaze-- Round him terrific lightenings play-- With eyes of fire, he looks then through, Crushes the vile despotic crew, And Pride in ruin lays.

Written by Thomas Hardy | The Church-Builder The church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward: The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard; Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord. I squared the broad foundations in Of ashlared masonry; I moulded mullions thick and thin, Hewed fillet and ogee; I circleted Each sculptured head With nimb and canopy. I called in many a craftsmaster To fix emblazoned glass, To figure Cross and Sepulchure On dossal, boss, and brass. My gold all spent, My jewels went To gem the cups of Mass. I borrowed deep to carve the screen And raise the ivoried Rood; I parted with my small demesne To make my owings good. Heir-looms unpriced I sacrificed, Until debt-free I stood. So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed Here substanced!" said my soul: "I heard me bidden to this deed, And straight obeyed the call. Illume this fane, That not in vain I build it, Lord of all!" But, as it chanced me, then and there Did dire misfortunes burst; My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst; Till I confessed That aims the best Were looking like the worst. Enkindled by my votive work No burnng faith I find; The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind; From nod and wink I read they think That I am fool and blind. My gift to God seems futile, quite; The world moves as erstwhile; And powerful Wrong on feeble Right Tramples in olden style. My faith burns down, I see no crown; But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. So now, the remedy? Yea, this: I gently swing the door Here, of my fane--no soul to wis-- And cross the patterned floor To the rood-screen That stands between The nave and inner chore. The rich red windows dim the moon, But little light need I; I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn From woods of rarest dye; Then from below My garment, so, I draw this cord, and tie One end thereof around the beam Midway 'twixt Cross and truss: I noose the nethermost extreme, And in ten seconds thus I journey hence-- To that land whence No rumour reaches us. Well: Here at morn they'll light on one Dangling in mockery Of what he spent his substance on Blindly and uselessly!... "He might," they'll say, "Have built, some way, A cheaper gallows-tree!"

Written by Eugene Field | A Valentine Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell I love her well. Yes, though she tramples on my heart And rends that bleeding thing apart; And though she rolls a scornful eye On doting me when I go by; And though she scouts at everything As tribute unto her I bring - Apple, banana, caramel - Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell, In spite of all, I love her well! And further say I have a sled Cushioned in blue and painted red! The groceryman has promised I Can "hitch" whenever he goes by - Go, tell her that, and, furthermore, Apprise my sweetheart that a score Of other little girls implore The boon of riding on that sled Painted and hitched, as aforesaid; - And tell her, Cupid, only she Shall ride upon that sled with me! Tell her this all, and further tell I love her well.

Written by Victor Hugo | Marriage And Feasts ("La salle est magnifique.") {IV. Aug. 23, 1839.} The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright— The feast to pampered palate gives delight— The sated guests pick at the spicy food, And drink profusely, for the cheer is good; And at that table—where the wise are few— Both sexes and all ages meet the view; The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face— The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace, The prattling infant, and the hoary hair Of second childhood's proselytes—are there;— And the most gaudy in that spacious hall, Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all Helmet and banner, ornament and crest, The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, The silver star that glitters fair and white, The arms that tell of many a nation's might— Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride, And all mankind invents for pomp beside, The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild— All these encircle woman, chief and child; Shine on the carpet burying their feet, Adorn the dishes that contain their meat; And hang upon the drapery, which around Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground, Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread, As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.— Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site. The chamber echoes to the joy of them Who throng around, each with his diadem— Each seated on proud throne—but, lesson vain! Each sceptre holds its master with a chain! Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all! The godlike-making draught that fires the soul The Love—sweet poison-honey—past control, (Formed of the sexual breath—an idle name, Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)— Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night, Whose languid eye flames when is fading light— The gallant chases where a man is borne By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn— The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose, Made more to soothe the sight than court repose; The mighty palaces that raise the sneer Of jealous mendicants and wretches near— The spacious parks, from which horizon blue Arches o'er alabaster statues new; Where Superstition still her walk will take, Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake— The innocent modesty by gems undone— The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won— The dread of children, trembling while they play— The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway— The note of war struck by the culverin, That snakes its brazen neck through battle din— The military millipede That tramples out the guilty seed— The capital all pleasure and delight— And all that like a town or army chokes The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes. The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate, While gleamingly its golden scales still spread— Such were the meats by which these guests were fed. A hundred slaves for lazy master cared, And served each one with what was e'er prepared By him, who in a sombre vault below, Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe, And grimly glad went laboring till late— The morose alchemist we know as Fate! That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste, Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed; Conscience a guide who every evil spies, But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes! Oh! at the table there be all the great, Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! Superb, magnificent of revels—doubt That sagest lose their heads in such a rout! In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round, Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound; And the astonished gazer casts his care, Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare. But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour Forgetfulness of those without the door— At very hour when all are most in joy, And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, Woe—woe! with jollity a-top the heights, With further tapers adding to the lights, And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, Where poor folks stare—hark to the heavy feet! Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, Some one below will be admitted straight, Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath— That stranger enters to be known as Death— Or merely Exile—clothed in alien guise— Death drags away—with his prey Exile flies! Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, Ere seizing one—the dumbest monarch oft, And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth. G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

Written by Isaac Watts | Psalm 75 Power and government from God alone. [Applied to the glorious Revolution by King William, or the happy accession of King George to the throne.] To thee, most Holy and most High, To thee we bring our thankful praise; Thy works declare thy name is nigh, Thy works of wonder and of grace. Britain was doomed to be a slave, Her frame dissolved, her fears were great; When God a new supporter gave, To bear the pillars of the state. He from thy hand received his crown, And sware to rule by wholesome laws; His foot shall tread th' oppressor down, His arm defend the righteous cause. Let haughty sinners sink their pride, Nor lift so high their scornful head; But lay their foolish thoughts aside, And own the king that God hath made. Such honors never come by chance, Nor do the winds promotion blow; 'Tis God the Judge doth one advance, 'Tis God that lays another low. No vain pretence to royal birth Shall fix a tyrant on the throne: God, the great Sovereign of the earth, Will rise and make his justice known. [His hand holds out the dreadful cup Of vengeance mixed with various plagues, To make the wicked drink them up, Wring out and taste the bitter dregs. Now shall the Lord exalt the just; And while he tramples on the proud, And lays their glory in the dust, My lips shall sing his praise aloud.]

Written by Francis Thompson | New Years Chimes What is the song the stars sing? (And a million songs are as song of one) This is the song the stars sing: (Sweeter song's none) One to set, and many to sing, (And a million songs are as song of one) One to stand, and many to cling, The many things, and the one Thing, The one that runs not, the many that run. The ever new weaveth the ever old, (And a million songs are as song of one) Ever telling the never told; The silver saith, and the said is gold, And done ever the never done. The chase that's chased is the Lord o' the chase, (And a million songs are as song of one) And the pursued cries on the race; And the hounds in leash are the hounds that run. Hidden stars by the shown stars' sheen: (And a million suns are but as one) Colours unseen by the colours seen, And sounds unheard heard sounds between, And a night is in the light of the sun. An ambuscade of lights in night, (And a million secrets are but as one) And anight is dark in the sun's light, And a world in the world man looks upon. Hidden stars by the shown stars' wings, (And a million cycles are but as one) And a world with unapparent strings Knits the stimulant world of things; Behold, and vision thereof is none. The world above in the world below, (And a million worlds are but as one) And the One in all; as the sun's strength so Strives in all strength, glows in all glow Of the earth that wits not, and man thereon. Braced in its own fourfold embrace (And a million strengths are as strength of one) And round it all God's arms of grace, The world, so as the Vision says, Doth with great lightning-tramples run. And thunder bruiteth into thunder, (And a million sounds are as sound of one) From stellate peak to peak is tossed a voice of wonder, And the height stoops down to the depths thereunder, And sun leans forth to his brother-sun. And the more ample years unfold (With a million songs as song of one) A little new of the ever old, A little told of the never told, Added act of the never done. Loud the descant, and low the theme, (A million songs are as song of one) And the dream of the world is dream in dream, But the one Is is, or nought could seem; And the song runs round to the song begun. This is the song the stars sing, (Tonèd all in time) Tintinnabulous, tuned to ring A multitudinous-single thing (Rung all in rhyme).

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson | My Tenants I never had a title-deed To my estate. But little heed Eyes give to me, when I walk by My fields, to see who occupy. Some clumsy men who lease and hire And cut my trees to feed their fire, Own all the land that I possess, And tax my tenants to distress. And if I say I had been first, And, reaping, left for them the worst, That they were beggars at the hands Of dwellers on my royal lands, With idle laugh of passing scorn As unto words of madness born, They would reply I do not care; They cannot crowd the charméd air; They cannot touch the bonds I hold On all that they have bought and sold. They can waylay my faithful bees, Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease, Are robbe. Is one day's honey sweet Thus snatched? All summer round my feet In golden drifts from plumy wings, In shining drops on fragrant things Free gift, it came to me. My corn, With burnished banners, morn by morn, Comes out to meet and honor me; The glittering ranks spread royally Far as I walk. When hasty greed Tramples it down for food and seed, I, with a certain veiled delight, Hear half the crop is lost by blight. Letter of the law these may fulfil, Plant where they like, slay what they will, Count up their gains and make them great; Nevertheless, the whole estate Always belongs to me and mine. We are the only royal line. And though I have no title-deed My tenants pay me royal heed When our sweet fields I wander by To see what strangers occupy.