There let us often wend our pensive way, There often pausing celebrate the past; For though indeed our BRASH be dead at last, Perchance his spirit, in some minor way, Nor pure immortal nor entirely dead, Contrives upon the farther shore of death To pick a rank subsistence, and for breath Breathes ague, and drinks creosote of lead, There, on the way to that infernal den, Where burst the flames forth thickly, and the sky Flares horrid through the murk methinks he doles Damned liquors out to Hellward-faring souls, And as his impotent anger ranges high Gibbers and gurgles at the shades of men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONLY A WOMAN by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK THE BATTLEFIELD by EMILY DICKINSON SONNET: 144 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE CARMEN SYLVA by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS EXTRACTS FROM VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1823 by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO THE READER by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE by THOMAS CAMPION |