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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
"BENJAMIN DISRAELI, EARL OF BEACONSFIELD", by ANONYMOUS First Line: Disraeli dead! The trappings of late days Last Line: A tear upon the wreath Subject(s): "death;disraeli, Benjamin (1804-1881);honor;jews;memory;" "dead, The;judaism; | |||
DISRAELI dead! The trappings of late days, The Coronet, the Garter, slip aside, The Peer's emblazonment, the victor's bays, The pageantry of pride. Triumph's mere symbols, badges of success, Who weighs, who marks them now when all is said In simple words, lowbreathed in heaviness? Disraeli's dead! So all have known him from that earlier time Of meteoric and all-daring youth, And through the season of his dazzling prime; And so to-day, in sooth, 'Tis Benjamin Disraeli all will mourn, Nor he the less unfeignedly whose lance Against that shield and crest full oft had borne in combat à outrance. The fearless fighter and the flashing wit Swordless and silent! 'Tis a thought to dim The young Spring sunshine, glancing, as was fit, Bright at the last on him. Who knew no touch of winter in his soul, Holding the Greek gift yet in mind and tongue, And who, though faring past life's common goal, Loved of the gods died young. Like the Enchantress of the Nile, unstaled By custom as unchilled by creeping years, A world-compeller, who not often failed In fight with his few peers. Success incarnate, self-inspired, self-raised To that proud height whereat youth's fancy aimed Whom even those who doubted whilst they praised, Admired, e'en whilst they blamed. No more that fine invective's flow to hear, That buoyant wisdom or that biting wit! To see him and his one sole battle-peer Sharp counter hit for hit. No more to picture that impassive face, That unbetraying eye, that fadeless curl, No more in plot or policy to trace The hand of the great Earl! How strange it seems, and how unwelcome! Rest, Not least amidst our greatest! Who would dare Deny thee place and splendour with the best Who breathed our English air? Peace, lasting Peace that strife no more shall break, With Honour none may challenge, crown thee now Wherever laid, nor Faction's self would shake The laurel from thy brow. And England, who for thy quenched brightness grieves, Garlands the sword no more to leave its sheath, And, turning from thy simple gravestone, leaves A tear upon the wreath. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SITTING BULL IN SERBIA by WILLIAM JAY SMITH TO THE EXCELLENT ORINDA by PHILO PHILIPPA EPIGRAM OCCASIONED BY CIBBER'S VERSES IN PRAISE OF NASH: 1 by ALEXANDER POPE THE GIFT OF THE GODS by JOHN GODFREY SAXE TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH by ALFRED TENNYSON BEAU NASH by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER BEAU NASH AND THE ROMAN, OR THE TWO ERAS by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER TIS A LITTLE JOURNEY by ANONYMOUS |
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