Portraits of Jonson, Moore, and Browning (L-R)God Rest We Merry Gentlemen (An Essay) The Society February 2, 2019 Culture, Essays, Humor, Poetry 2 Comments by Gregory Spicer “Death and taxes” bemoan us now, as ever. Yet as I bask in the fading embers of Christendom’s most sentimental season, my mind freshly equips itself for the new year by conjoining three of the most extraordinary poems of yesteryear. The “ladies first” ideal has me wanting the gentle reader to feast their eyes on Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s (1806-1861) very first of her famous Sonnets From The Portuguese: I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery while I strove:- “Guess now who holds thee?”-“Death,” I said. But there The silver answer rang: “Not Death, but Love.” Oh how that ringing silver answer races the pulse! What timid soul could waste a precious moment fretting about the hereafter or the looming calendrical menace of April 15th after reading such a verse by a hot blooded pent up Victorian poetess? Not I. Nay, any toff worth even a tepid damn will be transfixed, mouth agape, by the vivid sauciness with which Love itself seizes Mrs. Browning’s hair! No wonder Mr. Browning was so smitten! Also, I guarantee that some of 2019 will have yours truly investigating that Theocritus chap. Just what was the deal with him? One thing always leads to another in poetry country. It is a small world and I bet I find a link between Mrs. Browning, Theocritus, and my next guest, the wonderful Ben Jonson’s (1572-1637) poem: Though I am young, and cannot tell Either what Death or Love is well, Yet I have heard they both bear darts, And both do aim at human hearts. And then again, I have been told Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up, or fall; Or to our endlike way may have By a flash of lightning, or a wave; So Love’s inflamed shaft or brand May kill as soon as Death’s cold hand; Except Love’s fires the virtue have To fright the frost out of the grave. Here again Love is the star of the show and, like The Human Torch of comic book fame, is superpowered enough “To fright the frost out of the grave.” Both of these poems suggest that the Grim Reaper has met his match in some fashion whenever he encounters the power of Love. I daresay that modern laboratory-based sceptic, a Dr. Buzz Kill, will no doubt call all of this a pile of sentimental drivel, yet a knowledgeable toff understands that chicks dig that sort of thing and therefore learns not only to “roll with it” but to actively promote it to an aesthetically sterile world. Sterile, I say, for having turned its back on all sentiment when it should have at least kept up with the tastier bits of it. At least now the toff has a purpose, perhaps best summed up by this gem of a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852): An Argument I’ve oft been told by learned friars, That wishing and the crime are one, And Heaven punishes desires As much as if the deed were done. If wishing damns us, you and I Are damned to all our heart’s content; Come, then, at least we may enjoy Some pleasure for our punishment! Well that’s as top notch as a New Year’s Eve Champagne toast is ever apt to get! Bravo! And so, dear reader, take the advice of this poetic collective and be sure to cheerfully embrace a robust share of wholesome sentiment before paying your taxes or perishing so that you too may defrost your grave someday. Chin-chin! A sonneteer who lives in Sifton, Washington, Gregory Spicer was born in Portland, Oregon in 1963 and graduated from Clark College In Vancouver, Washington in 1989. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 2 Responses James A. Tweedie February 4, 2019 Gregory, I enjoyed the wit and humor of your essay. I also enjoyed reading Browning’s sonnet, one I do not recall having read before. Vive la difference! Reply Monty February 5, 2019 Until now, Greg, I never realised that the word ‘mused’ could be used the way it is in the 5th line of Browning’s piece: “And, as I mused it . .” I always assumed that one could only muse OVER something, or UPON something, or ABOUT something: but not ‘muse something’. I obviously can’t question said usage, ‘cos it’s staring at me from a published poem by a renowned poet (from a time, unlike today, when the slightest grammatical-error would never get past a proofreader); but I can’t say it sits comfy with me as correct english-usage. If I was giving a friend an interesting essay to read, I might say: “Here’s something for you to muse upon/over” . . so I’m mildly alarmed to learn that I could correctly say to the friend: “Muse this”! I find myself curious . . Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. 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