Sir Walter Scott

(1771-1832 / Edinburgh / Scotland)

Answer - Poem by Sir Walter Scott

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.


Comments about Answer by Sir Walter Scott

  • (4/7/2017 11:17:00 PM)


    Great short and sweet poem depicting a great truth. (Report) Reply

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  • Geeta Radhakrishna Menon (4/7/2017 12:19:00 PM)


    A short, succinct poem with a whole lot of meaning.
    A glorious life with rich experience lived well is worth an age!
    (Report) Reply

  • Muzahidul Reza (4/7/2017 10:59:00 AM)


    Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
    To all the sensual world proclaim,
    One crowded hour of glorious life
    Is worth an age without a name. excellent
    (Report) Reply

  • (4/7/2017 9:12:00 AM)


    One brief moment of fame and notoriety is preferrable to a life unnoticed? Sometimes Fame can be unfortunate and sometimes better than nothing..Very few people can handle the attention fame brings unless they seek their moment in the Sun.. (Report) Reply

  • (4/7/2017 6:49:00 AM)


    A resounding clarion call which makes more meaning within the context of poem attributed to Major Mordaunt. (Report) Reply

  • Bernard F. Asuncion (4/7/2017 2:30:00 AM)


    Glorious life.... thanks for posting.... (Report) Reply

  • Rajnish Manga (4/7/2017 1:38:00 AM)


    Whosoever has written this poem (I refer to the comments of Lantz Pierre) , It has indeed a profound message for all of us. Life should be purposeful and not essentially long. Thanks. (Report) Reply

  • Edward Kofi Louis (4/7/2017 12:56:00 AM)


    Sound! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us. (Report) Reply

  • Lantz Pierre (4/7/2017 12:40:00 AM)


    The quatrain of The Call is the 11th stanza of a 14-stanza poem published in the October 12,1791 edition of The Bee (a weekly literary magazine published in Edinburgh, Scotland)

    The Call

    A Poem, said to be written by
    Major Mordaunt during the last
    German War. Never before published.

    Go, lovely boy! [1] to yonder tow'r
    The fame of Janus, ruthless King!
    And shut, O! shut the brazen door,
    And here the keys in triumph bring.

    Full many a tender heart hath bled,
    Its joys in Belgia's soil entomb'd:
    Which thou to Hymen's smiling bed,
    And length of sweetest hours had doom'd.

    Oh, glory! you to ruin owe
    The fairest plume the hero wears:
    Raise the bright helmet from his brow;
    You'll mock beneath the manly tears.

    Who does not burn to place the crown
    Of conquest on his Albion's head?
    Who weeps not at her plaintive moan,
    To giver her hapless orphans bread?

    Forgive, ye brave, the generous fault,
    If thus my virtue falls; alone
    My Delia stole my earliest thought,
    And fram'd its feelings by her own.

    Her mind so pure, her face so fair;
    Her breast the seat of softest love;
    It seemed her words an angel's were,
    Her gentle percepts from above.

    My mind thus form'd, to misery gave
    The tender tribute of a tear:
    O! Belgia, open thy vast grave,
    For I could pour and ocean there.

    When first you show'd me at your feet
    Pale liberty, religion tied,
    I flew to shut the glorious gate
    Of freedom on a tyrant's pride.

    Tho great the cause, so wore with woes,
    I can not but lament the deed:
    My youth to melancholy bows,
    An Clotho trifles with my thread.

    But stop, my Clio, wanton muse,
    Indulge not this unmanly strain:
    Beat, beat the drums, my ardor rouse,
    And call the soldier back again.

    Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,
    Throughout the sensual world proclaim,
    One crowded hour of glorious life
    Is worth an age without a name.

    Go then, thou little lovely boy,
    I can not, must not, hear thee now;
    And all thy soothing arts employ
    To sooth my Delia of her wo.

    If the gay flow'r, in all its youth,
    Thy scythe of glory here must meet;
    Go, bear my laurel, pledge of truth,
    And lay it at my Delia's feet.

    Her tears shall keep it ever green,
    To crown the image in her breast;
    Till death doth close the hapless scene,
    And calls its angel home to rest.[2]

    ↑ Cupid
    ↑ As originally printed, according to the
    Literary Digest, Sept.11,1920.


    http: //pennyspoetry.wikia.com/wiki/The_Call_by_Thomas_Osbert_Mordaunt
    (Report) Reply

  • (10/17/2016 10:00:00 AM)


    I do like this poem, a short motto for life! (Report) Reply

  • (1/26/2015 10:29:00 AM)


    Awesome poem off the hook (Report) Reply

  • Crystal Conrick-knight (1/25/2014 6:20:00 PM)


    love your poem thank you for sharing it. It is marked with powerful insight and wisdom. (Report) Reply

  • (1/25/2014 4:17:00 PM)


    I wonder if any nameless man agrees to that. Hight of arrogance from people having a glorious life which may or may not be of their making or worth living. (Report) Reply

  • Gajanan Mishra (1/25/2014 5:15:00 AM)


    glorious life. worth a name, I like it. (Report) Reply

  • Pranab K Chakraborty (1/25/2013 6:57:00 AM)


    The poem sounds like a passion of modern drug-addict. Passion is quiet same. Is that all of life! What does glory mean! But Bernard Shaw showed us the glory of naming hazard by different way. Just death of a spider after their successful meeting. So doctrines are always very much contradictory within its meaningful limit. So the poem is easy to read but much more easy to deny its vibration................................Pranab k c (Report) Reply

  • Pranab K Chakraborty (1/25/2013 6:41:00 AM)


    The poem sounds like a modern drug addict. Passion is quiet same. Is that all of life! What does glory mean! But Bernard Shaw showed us the glory of naming hazard by different way. Just death of a spider after their successful meeting. So doctrines are always very much contradictory within its meaningful limit. So the poem is easy to read but much more easy to condemn its vibration................................Pranab k c (Report) Reply

  • Gajanan Mishra (1/25/2013 4:51:00 AM)


    Worth an age without a name. very good poem.
    .
    (Report) Reply

  • (1/25/2012 4:53:00 AM)


    [i remember happy hour in sydney, australia when they ring bell we stand up and toast to a nameless mate... thanks mate; good day mate. that's glorious ain't it] md (Report) Reply

  • (1/25/2010 9:07:00 AM)


    No No not every poem written by a soldier is a call to arms. God forbid! ! !
    Has no one else read Wilfred Owen and so many other poet soldiers of similar ilk?
    Who spilled their ink and blood lost in the mud while Consciousness Objectors.
    Who believed they had no right to speak out against such wars unless they fought.

    Please read Wilfred Owen, those exceptional anti-war protests.
    (Report) Reply

  • Kevin Straw (1/25/2010 7:14:00 AM)


    The poem is a paeon to the glory of war the sound of which was drowned out by the machine guns in WWI. Is the word 'sensual' redundant?

    I google that it was quoted as anonymous by Scott, and taken up by the world (including Quiller-Couch's 1919 Oxford anthology, I see) as Scott's because it is like his style. But it was actually written by Mordaunt as part of a larger poem - to whom it is now rightfully attributed.

    I cannot imagine a poet of Scott's fame would plagiarise four lines. If Mordaunt is in heaven is he grateful to Scott for rescuing him from 'an age without a name'?
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002



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