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The Poet Laberius

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.

WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more.
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once, I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Remonstrance

Oh! why those narrow rules extol?
These but restrain from ill,
True virtue lies in strength of soul
And energy of will.

To all that's great and high aspires,
Prompts to the path of fame
From Heaven draws down Promethean fires
And wraps the soul in flame.

With brow erect, eye undismayed
Confronts the midday sun,
Nor sleeps inglorious in the shade
Of praises cheaply won;

Scans not too curiously the chance
Of good or evil fate,
But with a free and fearless glance
Knocks at Hope's, golden gate;

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poem by James Joseph Sylvester
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The Study and Beauties of the Works of Nature

O Nature! all-sufficient! over all!
Enrich me with the knowledge of Thy works!
Snatch me to heaven; Thy rolling wonders there,
World beyond world, in infinite extent,
Profusely scatter'd o'er the void immense,
Shew me; their motions, periods, and their laws,
Give me to scan; through the disclosing deep
Light my blind way; the mineral strata there;
Thrust, blooming, thence the vegetable world;
O'er that the rising system more complex,
Of animals; and higher still, the mind,
The varied scene of quick-compounded thought,
And where the mixing passions endless shift;
These ever open to my ravish'd eye;
A search, the flight of time can ne'er exhaust!
But if to that unequal; if the blood,
In sluggish streams about my heart, forbid
That best ambition; under closing shades,
Inglorious, lay me by the lowly brook,
And whisper to my dreams. From Thee begin,

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poem by James Thomson
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A Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General

"His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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Genius

Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,
Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,
Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth,
Within his solitary soul enshrined.
Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,
Like the undying vultures', will be driven
Into his noble heart, that must endure
Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.

Still though his destiny on earth may be
Grief and injustice; who would not endure
With joyful calm, each proffered agony;
Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,
O'er which nor time nor death can have control,
Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly
From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?
No! though the clamors of the envious crowd

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Lay His Sword By His Side

Lay his sword by his side -- it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave --
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause -- for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains; --
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains."
And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep --
It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,

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poem by Thomas Moore
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Dust unto Dust

The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed

Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.

The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through

A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out

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poem by Valsa George
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The Sick Lion and the Ass

A lion sunk by time's decay,
Too feeble grown to hunt his prey,
Observed his fatal hour draw nigh:
He drooped and laid him down to die.
There came by chance a savage boar,
Who trembled oft to hear him roar,
But when he saw him thus distressed
He tore and gored his royal breast.
A bull came next (ungen'rous foe),
Rejoiced to find him fall'n so low,
And with his horny-armed head
He aimed at once to strike him dead, -
He strikes, he wounds, he shocks in vain,
The lion still conceals his pain.
At length a base inglorious ass,
Who saw so many insults pass,
Came up and kicked him in the side:
'Twas this that raised the lion's pride.
He roused, and thus he spoke at length,
For indignation gave him strength:

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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Beata Elizabeth - 1970

Beyond time's wall what scene is set
Eden's wish whet? or Lethe wet?
As wistful look closed book perceives
Time swallows all while beauty grieves
At evanescence, doomsday met.
Entrapped all mortals are, beget
Life for a season, for fall's leaves
Inters as dust all Man conceives.
Zero sum rule of thumb, each bet
Alas seems, double-b[l]ind roulette
Ball calls black wrack while victim heaves
Extenuated sigh, bereaves
The search for traces all forget.
Here dawn's in pawn, by dusk paid debt,
Bloom sere on stem, threads interweave
Events and causes, petty peeve
And high ideal peel off, Death's net
Takes all, calls bluff, rough, smooth, soothe, fret.
Awake, asleep, deep, light, believe
Each reaches for some signed reprieve,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Odysseus: In Memory Of Arthur Griffith

You had the prose of logic and of scorn,
And words to sledge an iron argument,
And yet you could draw down the outland birds
To perch beside the ravens of your thought
The dreams whereby a people challenges
Its dooms, its bounds. You were the one who knew
What sacred resistance is in men
That are almost broken; how, from resistance used,
A strength is born, a stormy, bright-eyed strength
Like Homer's Iris, messenger of the gods,
Coming before the ships the enemy
Has flung the fire upon. Our own, our native strength
You mustered up. But I will never say this,
Walking beside you, or looking on you,
With your strong brow, and chin was like a targe,
And eyes that were so kindly of us all.

And sorrow comes as on that August day,
With our ship cleaving through the seas for home,
And that news coming sparkling through the air,

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poem by Padraic Colum
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