ONE evening, when the sun was just gone down, As I was walking through the noisy town, A sudden silence through each street was spread, As if the soul of London had been fled. Much I enquired the cause, but could not hear, Till Fame, so frightened that she did not dare To raise her voice, thus whispered in my ear: 'Bennet, the prince of hawkers, is no more, Bennet, my herald on the British shore; Bennet, by whom I own myself outdone, Though I an hundred mouths, he had but one. He, when the list'ning town he would amuse, Made Echo tremble with his bloody news; No more shall Echo now his voice return, Echo for ever must in silence mourn. Lament, ye heroes, who frequent the wars, The great proclaimer of your dreadful scars. Thus wept the conqueror that the world o'ercame, Homer was wanting to enlarge his fame: Homer, the first of hawkers that is known, Great news from Troy cried up and down the town. None like him has there been for ages past, Till our Stentorian Bennet came at last: Homer and Bennet were in this agreed, Homer was blind, and Bennet could not read.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD by KATHERINE MANSFIELD MIDSUMMER BIRDS by ROBERT FROST HIGH PLAINS RAG by JAMES GALVIN BROTHERHOOD by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE AWAKENING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO OUR MOCKING-BIRD; DIED OF A CAT, MAY, 1878 by SIDNEY LANIER TWO POEMS FROM THE WAR: 2 by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH IN 'DESIGNING A CLOAK TO CLOAK HIS DESIGNS' YOU WRESTED FROM OBLIVION by MARIANNE MOORE |