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Best Poems Written by Pauline Connelly

Below are the all-time best Pauline Connelly poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Boatswain

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen.
Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:

While man, vain insect! Hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! Thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smile hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on - it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one - and here he lies.

This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded: -

Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices,
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, A Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May 1803
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov, 1809

Taken from a book entitled POEMS by LORD BYRON

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The Idiot By the Brook

An Idiot- boy, with earnest look,
Stood gazing on a little brook.
“Lad” said an old man, passing by,
Who marked the striplings steadfast eye,
“Why gaze you so upon the stream?”

The youth looked: a fitful gleam
Of half intelligence o’erspread
His simple features, as he said:
“I’m going over, but shall stay
Till all the water runs away.”

“You’d stay your life,” the man replied,
“And yet not reach the other side;
For long as time this brook will flow,
And you must wade, if you would go.”

So, reader stand not looking on
Till difficulties waves be gone;
But wade or swim through brook or river,
For they will flow and flow for ever.



W.R.E.
1872

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Grandpa's Birthday

Ee wor at allotment an we planned to surprise im.
Ee came ome mumblin summat abaat bein forgot.

We ad allsorts on’table and id underneath it.
Surprise! We all yelled when ee walked in.

It were great fun and Grandpa said is eyes were sore,
Sometimes they run ee said.

Pauline Connelly

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Lines Written In Early Spring

Lines Written In Early Spring


I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring the thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran:
And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure –
But the least motion that they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.


The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be natures holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What Man has made of Man?


William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

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Married Miss

The year 1850


I bear my soul to all who ask,
“Who is this woman, what is her task ?”
My task is great, I became a wife,
bore twelve children, gone has my life.

The endless toil with little respect,
my load has been heavy, I often reflect,
On days gone by when I felt free,
Oh, where is the ‘Miss’ I used to be.

The ‘Miss’ is there but she is imprisoned,
In my aged body, so tired, so wizened. 
I look in the mirror, my eyes say to me,
Love blinded you woman, and you couldn’t see.

         PaulineConnelly