Famous Long Blasphemy Poems

Famous Long Blasphemy Poems. Long Blasphemy Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Blasphemy long poems

See also: Long Member Poems

 The south-wind brings
Life, sunshine, and desire,
And on every mount and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire,
But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost he cannot restore,
And, looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.

I see my empty house,
I see my trees repair their boughs,
And he, —the wondrous child,
Whose silver warble wild
Outvalued every pulsing sound
Within the air's cerulean round,
The hyacinthine boy, for whom
Morn well might break, and April bloom,
The gracious boy, who did adorn
The world whereinto he was born,
And by his countenance repay
The favor of the loving Day,
Has disappeared from the Day's eye;
Far and wide she cannot find him,
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.
Returned this day the south-wind searches
And finds young pines and budding birches,
But finds not the budding man;
Nature who lost him, cannot remake him;
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,
Oh, whither tend thy feet?
I had the right, few days ago,
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know;
How have I forfeited the right?
Hast thou forgot me in a new delight?
I hearken for thy household cheer,
O eloquent child!
Whose voice, an equal messenger,
Conveyed thy meaning mild.
What though the pains and joys
Whereof it spoke...
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 Oh all ye, who pass by, whose eyes and mind
To worldly things are sharp, but to me blind; 
To me, who took eyes that I might you find: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

The Princes of my people make a head
Against their Maker: they do wish me dead, 
Who cannot wish, except I give them bread: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

Without me each one, who doth now me brave, 
Had to this day been an Egyptian slave.
They use that power against me, which I gave: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

Mine own Apostle, who the bag did bear, 
Though he had all I had, did not forebear
To sell me also, and to put me there: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

For thirty pence he did my death devise, 
Who at three hundred did the ointment prize, 
Not half so sweet as my sweet sacrifice: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

Therefore my soul melts, and my heart's dear treasure
Drops blood (the only beads) my words to measure: 
O let this cup pass, if it be thy pleasure: 
Was ever grief like mine? 

These drops being temper'd with a sinner's tears, 
A Balsam are for both the Hemispheres: 
Curing all...
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 The South-wind brings 
Life, sunshine and desire, 
And on every mount and meadow 
Breathes aromatic fire; 
But over the dead he has no power, 
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore; 
And, looking over the hills, I mourn 
The darling who shall not return. 
I see my empty house, 
I see my trees repair their boughs; 
And he, the wondrous child, 
Whose silver warble wild 
Outvalued every pulsing sound 
Within the ear's cerulean round,-- 
The hyacinthine boy, for whom 
Morn well might break and April bloom, 
The gracious boy, who did adorn 
The world whereinto he was born, 
And by his countenance repay 
The favor of the loving Day,-- 
Has disappeared from the Day's eye; 
Far and wide she cannot find him; 
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 
Returned this day, the South-wind searches, 
And finds young pines and budding birches; 
But finds not the budding man: 
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him; 
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him; 
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 
0, whither tend thy feet! 
I had the right, few days ago, 
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know: 
How have...
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 The vision of Christ that thou dost see 
Is my vision’s greatest enemy. 
Thine has a great hook nose like thine; 
Mine has a snub nose like to mine. 
Thine is the Friend of all Mankind; 
Mine speaks in parables to the blind. 
Thine loves the same world that mine hates; 
Thy heaven doors are my hell gates. 
Socrates taught what Meletus 
Loath’d as a nation’s bitterest curse, 
And Caiaphas was in his own mind 
A benefactor to mankind. 
Both read the Bible day and night, 
But thou read’st black where I read white. 

Was Jesus gentle, or did He 
Give any marks of gentility? 
When twelve years old He ran away, 
And left His parents in dismay. 
When after three days’ sorrow found, 
Loud as Sinai’s trumpet-sound: 
‘No earthly parents I confess— 
My Heavenly Father’s business! 
Ye understand not what I say, 
And, angry, force Me to obey. 
Obedience is a duty then, 
And favour gains with God and men.’ 
John from the wilderness loud cried; 
Satan gloried in his pride. 
‘Come,’ said Satan, ‘come away, 
I’ll soon see if you’ll obey! 
John for disobedience bled, 
But you can turn the stones to bread. 
God’s high king and...
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 ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven. 
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me 
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse. 
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for...
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CANTO FIRST.

The Chase.

     Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
        On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring
     And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
        Till envious ivy did around thee cling,
     Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—
        O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?
     Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
        Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,
     Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

     Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 10
        Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,
     When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
        Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud.
     At each according pause was heard aloud
        Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!
 ...
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