Old Poem Revue #2 by Aaron Belz
Raleigh’s Last Poem
Before being beheaded, Sir Walter Raleigh served as one of Queen Elizabeth’s “Sea Dog” anti-Spanish pirates; founded two failed settlements at Roanoke, Virginia; introduced Europe to the curative effects of tobacco; twice ventured to South America in search of El Dorado; wrote a lot of poetry — some quite funny and cutting, like “The Nymph’s Reply” to Chris Marlowe; and ultimately found himself on the wrong side of an England-Spain treaty.
Raleigh possessed an incisive wit. Even at his own execution, he reportedly observed the axe’s sharpness and quipped that it was the only physician capable of curing all ills in one stroke. When his body trembled in its final moments, he told bystanders not to worry, the shaking was due to his “ague.” Yes, a bit like the Flight of the Conchords’ “I’m Not Crying.” Afterward, his head was embalmed and sent to his wife, who kept it in a velvet bag.
In other words, Raleigh was the kind of guy you’d want to meet for drinks. He was an adventurer, a contemporary of Shakespeare, a Renaissance Man’s Renaissance Man before Dos Equis was even a brand. He was real: while neoclassical allusions flourished in English poetry, he kept his verse idiomatic. He was good: while his fellow expeditioners were inventing the transatlantic slave trade, he was taking a proto-#metoo position against the carpe-diem-style poetics of Marlowe, Campion, et al.
In fact, though it’s not a 21stcentury thing to say, Sir Walter Raleigh was a man of virtue. Unlike his more popular successors, he was a Lord and Gentleman, husband of one wife, faithful father of three sons—given neither to the moon, nor to drink, nor was he a philanderer, nor ruined by opium and STDs. My sense after having toured the Tower of London many years ago, and having read the inscriptions in rock that are now protected behind Lucite, is that England has valorized Raleigh more and more as time has passed.
The night before Raleigh died, he wrote an eight-line poem. Like David Bowie’s “Eight Line Poem,” it was written in London. But that is where the similarities end:
Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander’d all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.