Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc was a British-French writer and historian and one of the most prolific writers in England during the early twentieth century. Belloc was also an orator, poet, sailor, satirist, writer of letters, soldier, and political activist.
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Famous Hilaire Belloc Poems
Habitations
Kings live in Palaces, and Pigs in sties,
And youth in Expectation. Youth is wise.
King’s Land
Stand thou forever among human Houses,
House of the Resurrection, House of Birth;
House of the rooted hearts and long carouses,
Stand, and be famous over all the Earth.
Courtesy
Of Courtesy, it is much less
Than Courage of Heart or Holiness,
Yet in my Walks it seems to me
That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.
On Monks I did in Storrington fall,
They took me straight into their Hall;
I saw Three Pictures on a wall,
And Courtesy was in them all.
The first the Annunciation;
The second the Visitation;
The third the Consolation,
Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.
The first was of St. Gabriel;
On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;
And as he went upon one knee
He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.
Our Lady out of Nazareth rode –
It was Her month of heavy load;
Yet was her face both great and kind,
For Courtesy was in Her Mind.
The third it was our Little Lord,
Whom all the Kings in arms adored;
He was so small you could not see
His large intent of Courtesy.
Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,
Go bless you, People, one by one;
My Rhyme is written, my work is done.
When I am dead, I hope it may be said:
‘His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.’
Ballade Of Modest Confession
My reading is extremely deep and wide;
And as our modern education goes—
Unique I think, and skilfully applied
To Art and Industry and Autres Choses
Through many years of scholarly repose.
But there is one thing where I disappoint
My numerous admirers (and my foes).
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.
I ride superbly. When I say I ‘ride’
The word’s too feeble. I am one of those
That dominate a horse. It is my pride
To tame the fiercest with tremendous blows
Of heel and knee. The while my handling shows
Such lightness as a lady’s. But Aroint
Thee! Human frailty with thy secret woes!
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.
Painting on Vellum: not on silk or hide
Or ordinary Canvas: I suppose
No painter of the present day has tried
So many mediums with success, or knows
As well as I do how the subject grows
Beneath the hands of genius, that anoint
With balm. But I have something to disclose—
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.
Envoi
Prince! do not let your Nose, your royal Nose,
Your large imperial Nose get out of Joint.
For though you cannot touch my golden Prose,
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.
Her Final Role
This man’s desire; that other’s hopeless end;
A third’s capricious tyrant: and my friend.
The False Heart
I said to Heart, ‘How goes it?’ Heart replied:
‘Right as a Ribstone Pippin!’ But it lied.
The Fragment
Towards the evening of her splendid day
Those who are little children now shall say
(Finding this verse),’Who wrote it, Juliet?’
And Juliet answer gently, ‘I forget.’
The Bison
The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)
The Door-mat you see on his head
Is not, as some learned professors maintain,
The opulent growth of a genius’ brain;
But is sewn on with needle and thread.
Epitaph On The Favourite Dog Of A Politician
Here lies a Dog.- may every Dog that dies
Lie in security – as this Dog lies.
The Rebel
There is a wall of which the stones
Are lies and bribes and dead men’s bones.
And wrongfully this evil wall
Denies what all men made for all,
And shamelessly this wall surrounds
Our homesteads and our native grounds.
But I will gather and I will ride,
And I will summon a countryside,
And many a man shall hear my halloa
Who never had thought the horn to follow;
And many a man shall ride with me
Who never had thought on earth to see
High Justice in her armoury.
When we find them where they stand,
A mile of men on either hand,
I mean to charge from right away
And force the flanks of their array,
And press them inward from the plains,
And drive them clamouring down the lanes,
And gallop and harry and have them down,
And carry the gates and hold the town.
Then shall I rest me from my ride
With my great anger satisfied.
Only, before I eat and drink,
When I have killed them all, I think
That I will batter their carven names,
And slit the pictures in their frames,
And burn for scent their cedar door,
And melt the gold their women wore,
And hack their horses at the knees,
And hew to death their timber trees,
And plough their gardens deep and through—
And all these things I mean to do
For fear perhaps my little son
Should break his hands, as I have done.
The Face
A face Sir Joshua might have painted! Yea:
Sir Joshua painted anything for pay . . .
And after all you’re painted every day.
The Diamond
This diamond, Juliet, will adorn
Ephemeral beauties yet unborn.
While my strong verse, for ever new,
Shall still adorn immortal you.
The Elm
This is the place where Dorothea smiled.
I did not know the reason, nor did she.
But there she stood, and turned, and smiled at me:
A sudden glory had bewitched the child.
The corn at harvest, and a single tree.
This is the place where Dorothea smiled.
Lord Roehampton
During a late election Lord
Roehampton strained a vocal chord
From shouting, very loud and high,
To lots and lots of people why
The Budget in his own opin-
-Ion should not be allowed to win.
He sought a Specialist, who said:
‘You have a swelling in the head:
Your Larynx is a thought relaxed
And you are greatly over-taxed.’
‘I am indeed! On every side!’
The Earl (for such he was) replied
In hoarse excitement…. ‘Oh! My Lord,
You jeopardize your vocal chord!’
Broke in the worthy Specialist.
‘Come! Here’s the treatment! I insist!
To Bed! to Bed! And do not speak
A single word till Wednesday week,
When I will come and set you free
(If you are cured) and take my fee.’
On Wednesday week the Doctor hires
A Brand-new Car with Brand-new Tyres
And Brand-new Chauffeur all complete
For visiting South Audley Street.
But what is this? No Union Jack
Floats on the Stables at the back!
No Toffs escorting Ladies fair
Perambulate the Gay Parterre.
A ‘Scutcheon hanging lozenge-wise
And draped in crape appals his eyes
Upon the mansion’s ample door,
To which he wades through heaps of Straw,
And which a Butler drowned in tears,
On opening but confirms his fears:
‘Oh! Sir!—Prepare to hear the worst!…
Last night my kind old master burst.
And what is more, I doubt if he
Has left enough to pay your fee.
The Budget——’
With a dreadful oath,
The Specialist, denouncing both
The Budget and the House of Lords,
Buzzed angrily Bayswaterwards.
And ever since, as I am told,
Gets it beforehand; and in gold.
