Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning

Rabbi Ben Ezra

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made: 

Our times are in His hand 

Who saith "A whole I planned, 

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'' 

Not that, amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, 

Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 

Not that, admiring stars, 

It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without, 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: 

Such feasting ended, then 

As sure an end to men; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive! 

A spark disturbs our clod; 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough, 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 

Be our joys three-parts pain! 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! 

For thence,—a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks,— 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 

What I aspired to be, 

And was not, comforts me: 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 

To man, propose this test— 

Thy body at its best, 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? 

Yet gifts should prove their use: 

I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every turn: 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 

Brain treasured up the whole; 

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?" 

Not once beat "Praise be Thine! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: 

Perfect I call Thy plan: 

Thanks that I was a man! 

   Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!" 

For pleasant is this flesh; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best! 

Let us not always say, 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" 

As the bird wings and sings, 

Let us cry "All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage, 

Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next, 

What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby; 

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: 

And I shall weigh the same, 

Give life its praise or blame: 

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the grey: 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots—"Add this to the rest, 

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." 

So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife, 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

This rage was right i' the main, 

That acquiescence vain: 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid! 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all, 

Severed great minds from small, 

Announced to each his station in the Past! 

Was I, the world arraigned, 

Were they, my soul disdained, 

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate, 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me: we all surmise, 

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass, 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 

O'er which, from level stand, 

The low world laid its hand, 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 

So passed in making up the main account; 

All instincts immature, 

All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped; 

All I could never be, 

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— 

Thou, to whom fools propound, 

When the wine makes its round, 

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" 

Fool! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee, 

That was, is, and shall be: 

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves, 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 

What though, about thy rim, 

Skull-things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? 

Look not thou down but up! 

To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 

The new wine's foaming flow, 

The Master's lips a-glow! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men; 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 

Did I,—to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colours rife, 

Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: 

So, take and use Thy work: 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 

My times be in Thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 

Ulysses, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6835665317912169359/1802810075780927850# 

Ulysses 

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BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades 

For ever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

                               ###

Rupert Brooke -- The Soldier

https://englishverse.com/poems/the_soldier

RUPERT BROOKE

The Soldier

IF I should die, think only this of me:
    That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
    Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
        Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
        In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

John Donne: No Man is an Island

Here is a brief analysis of that poem: And here is a link to that poem: No Man Is an Island No man is an island, Entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, As well as if a promontory were: As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee. ###

Henry King; A Poem

The Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.

Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
"There is no Cure for this Disease.

"Henry will very soon be dead.''
His Parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,

Cried, "Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,
That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires...''
With that, the Wretched Child expires.

------------------------------

Henry King -- which I can recite by heart -- was the work of a rather distasteful (in my view) person, Hilaire Belloc.  But despite my dislike for its writer, I'm posting this on November 18, 2023.

JIM - A Poem

Jim

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;

His Friends were very good to him.

They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,

And slices of delicious Ham,

And Chocolate with pink inside

And little Tricycles to ride,

And read him Stories through and through,

And even took him to the Zoo—

But there it was the dreadful Fate

Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,

For I have often told you so—

That Children never are allowed

To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

Now this was Jim's especial Foible,

He ran away when he was able,

And on this inauspicious day

He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!

With open Jaws, a lion sprang,

And hungrily began to eat

The Boy: beginning at his feet.

Now, just imagine how it feels

When first your toes and then your heels,

And then by gradual degrees,

Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,

Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.

No wonder Jim detested it!

No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,

Though very fat he almost ran

To help the little gentleman.

``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came

(For Ponto was the Lion's name),

``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,

``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''

The Lion made a sudden stop,

He let the Dainty Morsel drop,

And slunk reluctant to his Cage,

Snarling with Disappointed Rage.

But when he bent him over Jim,

The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.

The Lion having reached his Head,

The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they

Were more Concerned than I can say:—

His Mother, as She dried her eyes,

Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,

He would not do as he was told!''

His Father, who was self-controlled,

Bade all the children round attend

To James's miserable end,

And always keep a-hold of Nurse

For fear of finding something worse.

###

https://allpoetry.com/poem/8493335-Jim-by-Hilaire-Belloc Hilaire Belloc   July 27, 1870 in France -July 16, 2953 in UK 

Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc was born in 1870 in a village a few miles from Paris a few days before the start of the Franco-Prussian war. Because of the war, he and his sister were taken to England and when the family returned to their home at the end of the war, they found it utterly vandalised by the occupying German troops. This in some measure, explains his life-long hostility to all things German.

As to charges of anti-semitism -- -this appears to be true of Belloc despite his denials:

https://www.nytimes.com/1923/02/25/archives/belloc-denies-that-he-is-antisemitic-replies-to-judge-rosalsky-that.html. 

And see:  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/hilaire-belloc

Jim; A Poem (Second copy)

 This is a deliberate duplicate.

You may find this poem by Hilaire Beloc here

https://allpoetry.com/poem/8493335-Jim-by-Hilaire-Belloc

Hilaire Belloc is NOT one of my favorite people by any means.

But this poem has meaning for me right now as my body slips away bit by bit.

And so I am posting it here, today, November 15th, 2023.

(However I am moving it to be right next to another similar post).

The title is simply "Jim." 

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

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