Francis Beaumont (1584 – 6 March 1616 / Leicestershire)
On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
Read poems about / on: trust, birth, strength, fate, change, sleep, fear, world
Comments about this poem (On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey by Francis Beaumont )
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This poem has been a favourite of mine since I was a child, and it appears unfinished here, or at least a much shortened version, and because of that the whole meaning of the poem is lost. The copy I have states that the author is not confirmed, and could have been written either by Francis Beaumont or W.Basse 1602. The copy I have is..
On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
(A Memento For Mortality)
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Hence removed from beds of ease,
Dainty fare, and what might please.
Fretted roofs, and costly shows
To a roof that flats the nose.
Which proclaims alol flesh is grass,
Hoe the world's fair glories pass;
That there is no trust in health,
In youth, in age, in greatness, wealth;
For if such could have reprieved
Those had been immortal lived.
Know from this, the world's a snare
How that greatness is but care,
How all pleasures are but pain
And how short they do remain.
For here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried-
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
With whom the poor man's earth being shown,
The difference is not easily known.
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Forgotten, dead, disconsolate.
Think then, this scythe that mows down Kings,
Exempts no meaner mortal things.
Then bid the wanton lady tread
Amid these mazes of the dead,
And these truly understood,
More shall cool and quench the blood,
Than her many sports a-day.
Bid her paint till day of doom
To this favour she must come.
Bid the merchant gather wealth,
The ursurer exact by stealth,
The proud man beat it from his thought,
Yet to this shape all must be brought.