IMMORTAL Ben is dead; and as that ball On Ida toss'd, so is his crown by all The infantry of wit. Vain priests! that chair Is only fit for his true son and heir. Reach here the laurel. Randolph, 'tis thy praise: Thy naked skull shall well become the bays. See Daphne courts thy ghost: and, spite of fate, Thy poems shall be poet-laureate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JOBHOLDER by DAVID IGNATOW ALIENS (TO YOU - EVERYWHERE! DEDICATED) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY by GEORGE SANTAYANA KATHMANDU GUEST HOUSE by KAREN SWENSON |