England in 1819 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,-- Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,-- Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know But leech-like to their fainting country cling, Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-- A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,-- An army, which liberticide and prey Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,-- Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay; Religion Christless, Godless--a book sealed; A Senate,--Time's worst statute unrepealed,-- Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.
Or, failing that glorious phantom, we may contemplate this:
Ozymandias I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stampled on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on my pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
(I don't think I've ever encountered the rhyme scheme for Ozymandias before: a b a b a c d c e d e f e f. Maybe its really a stock scheme and I've just been tone-deaf all these years, but the way the last nine spiral upon themselves is beautiful. Wish I could do it justice the way Carrol can).
Michael McIntyre mcintyremichael at mac.com
"Il n'est pas facile d'affranchir ceux qui vénèrent leurs chaînes." --Voltaire