Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Whom are they ushering from the world, with all Last Line: Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. Subject(s): Christianity; Funerals; Generosity; Sin; Strangers; Towns; Wealth; Burials; Riches; Fortunes | ||||||||
STRANGER. WHOM are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death? TOWNSMAN. A long parade, indeed, sir, and yet here You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage. STRANGER. 'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer. TOWNSMAN. Yonder schoolboy Who plays the truant, says the proclamation Of peace was nothing to the show; and even The chairing of the members at election Would not have been a finer sight than this, Only that red and green are prettier colours Than all this black. There, sir, you behold One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city, The envy and the boast of our exchange; Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half-million, Screw'd down in yonder hearse! STRANGER. Then he was born Under a lucky planet, who to-day Puts mourning on for his inheritance. TOWNSMAN. When first I heard his death, that very wish Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts: And I bless God, that when I go to the grave, There will not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down. STRANGER. The camel and the needle, Is that, then, in your mind? TOWNSMAN. Even so. The text Is gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel, Yea, leap him flying,through the needle's eye As easily as such a pampered soul Could pass the narrow gate. STRANGER. Pardon me, sir, But sure this lack of Christian charity Looks not like Christian truth. TOWNSMAN. Your pardon, too, sir, If, with this text before me, I should feel In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig-trees, With all their flourish and their leafiness, we have been told their destiny and use, When the axe is laid unto the root, and they Cumber the earth no longer. STRANGER. Was his wealth Stored fraudfully,the spoil of orphans wrong'd, And widows who had none to plead their right? TOWNSMAN. All honest, open, honourable gains, Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, Ships to the east and west. STRANGER. Why judge you then So hardly of the dead? TOWNSMAN. For what he left Undone.For sins, not one of which is mentioned In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him, Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed: Bow'd to no idolsbut his money-bags: Swore no false oaths,except at the custom-house: Kept the Sabbath idle: built a monument To honour his dead father: did no murder: Was too old-fashion'd for adultery: Never pick'd pockets; never bore false-witness: And never, with that all-commanding wealth, Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass! STRANGER. You knew him, then, it seems? TOWNSMAN. As all men know The virtues of your hundred-thousanders; They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. STRANGER. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir! for often Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen Freshening and giving life along its course. TOWNSMAN. We track the streamlet by the brighter green And livelier growth it gives;but as for this This was a pool that stagnated and stunk; The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it But slime and foul corruption. STRANGER. Yet even these Are reservoirs whence public charity Still keeps her channels full. TOWNSMAN. Now, sir, you touch Upon the point. This man of half a million Had all these public virtues which you praise: But the poor man rung never at his door; And the old beggar, at the public gate, Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand, He knew how vain it was to lift an eye To that hard face. Yet he was always found Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, Your benefactors in the newspapers. His alms were money put to interest In the other world,donations to keep open A running charity-account with heaven: Retaining fees against the last assizes, When, for the trusted talents, strict account Shall be required from all, and the old arch-lawyer Plead his own cause as plaintiff. STRANGER. I must needs Believe you, sirthese are your witnesses, These mourners here, who from their carriages Stare at the gaping crowd. A good March wind Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute Bears not a face blanker of all emotion Than the old servant of the family! How can this man have lived, that thus his death Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief! TOWNSMAN. Who should lament for him, sir, in whose heart Love had no place, nor natural charity? The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step, Rose slowly from the hearth, aud stole aside With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. How could it be but thus! Arithmetic Was the sole science he was ever taught; The multiplication-table was his Creed, His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed The open air and sunshine of the fields, To give his blood its natural spring and play, He in a close and dusky counting-house, Smoke-dried and sear'd and shrivell'd up his heart. So, from the way in which he was train'd up, His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd, Poor muck-worm! through his threescore years and ten: And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, If that which served him for a soul were still Within its husk,'twould still be dirt to dirt. STRANGER. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him For industry and honourable wealth A bright example. TOWNSMAN. Even half a million Gets him no other praise. But come this way Some twelve-months hence, and you will find his virtues Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALL LIFE IN A LIFE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FOUR POEMS ABOUT JAMAICA: 3. A HAIRPIN TURN ABOVE READING, JAMAICA by WILLIAM MATTHEWS IMAGINE YOURSELF by EVE MERRIAM THE PROPHET by LUCILLE CLIFTON I AM FIFTY-TWO YEARS OLD' by KENNETH REXROTH LAST VISIT TO THE SWIMMING POOL SOVIETS by KENNETH REXROTH PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AS A YOUNG ANARCHIST by KENNETH REXROTH BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |
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