…from the quills of the dead white poets

Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784)

Has heaven reserv’d, in pity to the poor,

No pathless waste, or undiscover’d shore?

No secret island in the boundless main?

No peaceful desert yet unclaim’d by Spain?

Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,

And bear oppression’s insolence no more.

This mournful truth is everywhere confess’d,


But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,

Where looks are merchadise, and slave are sold;

Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor’d

The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark! Th’ affrighted crowd’s tumulous cries

Roll through the street, and thunder to the skies:

Rais’d from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow’r,

Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow’r;

Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight

Sustain th’ approaching fire tremendoust light;

Swift from puruing horrors take your way,

And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;

Then thro’ the word a wretched vagrant roam,

For where can starving merit find a home?

In vain your mournful narrative disclose,

While all neglect, and most insult your woes.

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>