Classic and Contemporary Poetry
IN PRISON [AT LINN] (WRITTEN WHEN A PRISONER DURING CROMWELL'S REVOLT), by ROGER L'ESTRANGE Poet's Biography First Line: Beat on, proud billows; boreas blow Last Line: Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. Variant Title(s): Loyalty Confined;mr. Le Strange His Verses Subject(s): Charles I, King Of England (1600-1649); Cromwell, Oliver (1599-1658); L'estrange, Sir Roger (1616-1704); Prisons & Prisoners; Tower Of London; Convicts | ||||||||
Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail A private closet is to me; Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty: Locks, bars, and solitude together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. Here sin, for want of food, must starve Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep rogues out, not keep me in. Malice is now grown charitable, sure: I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure. And, whilst I wisht to be retired, Into this private room was turned; As if their wisdoms had conspired The salamander should be burned; Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am condemned to suffer what I wish. The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; And 't is the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see Make torments easier to their apathy. I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, Like some high-prized margarite; Or like the great Mogul or Pope, I'm cloister'd up from public sight. Retiredness is a part of majesty, And thus, proud Sultan! I am great as thee. These manacles upon my arm I as my mistress' favors wear; And for to keep my ankles warm I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking to make his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to his cure: Malice, we see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event. Altho' I cannot see my king -- Neither in person -- nor in coin! -- Yet contemplation is a thing That renders that I have not, mine. My king from me no adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven in my heart. Have you not heard the nightingale, A prisoner close kept in cage, How she doth chaunt her wonted tale, In that narrow hermitage? Even then her melody doth plainly prove Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove. My soul is free as ambient air, Which doth my outward parts include; Whilst loyal thoughts still repair T' accompany my solitude. What though they do with chains my body bind, My king alone can captivate my mind. I am that bird whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; And tho' they may my corpse confine, Yet, maugre that, my soul is free: Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing, Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECULAR GAMES by RICHARD HOWARD WHAT DID YOU SEE? by FANNY HOWE JULIA TUTWILER STATE PRISON FOR WOMEN by ANDREW HUDGINS BOTHWELL: PART 4 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN BOTHWELL: PART 4 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN WORK IN PROGRESS by CHARLES MARTIN THE SUBCULTURE OF THE WRONGLY ACCUSED by THYLIAS MOSS TO KNOW IN REVERIE THE ONLY PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ABSOLUTE by HAYDEN CARRUTH L'ENVOI: THE RETURN OF THE SIRE DE NESLE, A.D. 16 - by HERMAN MELVILLE |
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