Poems About Conscience

Table of Contents

1. Conscience

   by John Boyle O'Reilly

   I care not for the outer voice
   That deals out praise or blame;
   I could not with the world rejoice
   Nor bear its doom of shame—
   But when the Voice within me speaks
   The truth to me is known;
   He sees himself who inward seeks—
   The riches are his own.
   

2. Belshazzar had a letter

   by Emily Dickinson

   Belshazzar had a letter, —
   He never had but one;
   Belshazzar's correspondent
   Concluded and begun
   In that immortal copy
   The conscience of us all
   Can read without its glasses
   On revelation's wall.

3. When Nerves Are Dead

   by Amos Russel Wells

   
   

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   When the nerve is alive, and the dentist cuts and grinds,
   There are fully fifty pains he invariably finds
   There are pains that are hot, there are pains that are cold,
   There are big and swelling pains that the mouth can hardly hold,
   There are pains like a needle, there are pains like a saw,
   There are pains that explode and other pains that gnaw—
   When the nerve of the tooth is alive.
   

   When the nerve is dead, let the dentist grind away,
   You can sit and smile, quite at ease and even gay;
   He can do his worst, and he doesn't hurt a bit,
   He can chisel and bore and you hardly think of it.
   But the tooth, alas! needs the nerve to keep it well
   And it soon decays and becomes a brittle shell
   When the nerve of the tooth is dead.
   

   When the nerve of the soul is alive to sin and woe,
   How we groan at wrongs, and we will not have them so,
   How we sigh and weep at the weary lot of man,
   How we tug and pull just to help the best we can,
   How we heal the sick, how we bolster up the weak,
   How we range afar as the wretched lost we seek,
   When the nerve of the soul is alive.
   

   When the nerve of the soul is dead we live at ease,
   Sin, woe, and want,—let them ravage as they please.
   Let the wicked rule, let the weary faint and fall,
   We are deaf and blind to the sorrow of it all.
   But alas! for the soul as it slowly shrinks away,
   As it rots and fades in an ugly, swift decay,
   When the nerve of the soul is dead.
   

4. Conscience and Remorse

   I cried: "Come back, my conscience;
   I long to see thy face."
   But conscience cried: "I cannot;
   Remorse sits in my place."
   

   – Paul Laurence Dunbar
   Conscience and Remorse

   “

   by Paul Laurence Dunbar

   
   

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   "Good-bye," I said to my conscience —
   "Good-bye for aye and aye,"
   And I put her hands off harshly,
   And turned my face away;
   And conscience smitten sorely
   Returned not from that day.
   

   But a time came when my spirit
   Grew weary of its pace;
   And I cried: "Come back, my conscience;
   I long to see thy face."
   But conscience cried: "I cannot;
   Remorse sits in my place."
   

5. Conscience and Future Judgement

   by Anonymous

   
   

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   I sat alone with my conscience,
   In a place where time had ceased,
   And we talked of my former living
   In the land where the years increased;
   And I felt I should have to answer
   The question it might put to me,
   And to face the question and answer
   Throughout an eternity.
   

   The ghosts of forgotten actions
   Came floating before my sight,
   And things that I thought had perished
   Were alive with a terrible might;
   And the vision of life's dark record
   Was an awful thing to face—
   Alone with my conscience sitting
   In that solemnly silent place.
   

   And I thought of a far-away warning,
   Of a sorrow that was to be mine,
   In a land that then was the future,
   But now is the present time;
   And I thought of my former thinking
   Of the judgment day to be;
   But sitting alone with my conscience
   Seemed judgment enough for me.
   

   And I wondered if there was a future
   To this land beyond the grave;
   But no one gave me an answer
   And no one came to save.
   Then I felt that the future was present,
   And the present would never go by,
   For it was but the thought of a future
   Become an eternity.
   

   Then I woke from my timely dreaming,
   And the vision passed away;
   And I knew the far-away warning
   Was a warning of yesterday.
   And I pray that I may not forget it
   In this land before the grave,
   That I may not cry out in the future,
   And no one come to save.
   

   I have learned a solemn lesson
   Which I ought to have known before,
   And which, though I learned it dreaming,
   I hope to forget no more.
   

   So I sit alone with my conscience
   In the place where the years increase,
   And I try to fathom the future,
   In the land where time shall cease.
   And I know of the future judgment,
   How dreadful soe'er it be,
   That to sit alone with my conscience
   Will be judgment enough for me.
   

6. Two Powers

   by William Francis Barnard

   
   

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   The power of wrong
   Is iron strong;
   Is the power of right, then, weak?
   The power of right
   Is a greater might
   Than thou can'st think or speak.
   

   Each claims the world.
   Right's word is hurled
   That it bears fear of none;
   But wrong foregoes
   War, till it knows
   Some foul advantage won.
   

   Where'er they clash
   And great blows crash,
   Wrong, fearful, counts each friend;
   Let friends be few,
   Let none be true,
   Right battles till the end!
   

   They struggle still
   Through well and ill;
   Wrong tricks its every blow.
   With brave sword hand
   Right still would stand
   In fair fight with its foe.
   

   Through time's full length
   Wrong guards its strength
   As if it feared its fate;
   Right risks its all,
   To stand or fall,
   With patience which can wait.
   

   Once wounded sore,
   Wrong strives no more,
   But trembling with its smart,
   Flees from disdain,
   To staunch its pain,
   And hide its coward heart.
   

   On every field
   Where it must yield,
   Right fears no mortal thrust,
   But rises there
   Still strong to dare,
   Though struck down to the dust!
   

   Wrong's falsest power
   Fails hour by hour,
   And ever stands at bay;
   But the heart of right
   It thirsts for fight,
   Grown stronger every day.
   

   Till one by one
   Lies flee the sun,
   And the war-worn years are sped,
   And the last bold deed
   Is right's good meed,
   And wrong sinks, stricken dead.
   

   The power of wrong
   Is strong, thrice strong,
   And the fearful cringe and cry;
   But a blow shall fall
   To end it all,
   Ere the years of man go by!
   

7. The Crop of Acorns

   by Lydia Sigourney

   
   

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   There came a man, in days of old,
   To hire a piece of land, for gold,
   And urg'd his suit in accents meek,
   "One crop alone, is all I seek.
   That harvest o'er, my claim I yield,
   And back to you resign the field."
   

   The owner, some misgiving felt,
   And coldly with the stranger dealt,
   But found at length his reasons fail,
   And honied eloquence prevail,
   So took the proffer'd price in hand.
   And for one crop, leas'd out the land.
   

   The wily tenant sneer'd with pride,
   And sow'd the soil with acorns wide,
   At first, like tiny shoots they grew.
   Then broad and wide, their branches threw,
   But long before those oaks sublime
   Aspiring reach'd their forest prime.
   The cheated landlord mould'ring lay
   Forgotten with his kindred clay.
   

   Oh ye, whose years unfolding fair,
   Are fresh with youth and free from care,
   Should vice or indolence desire
   The garden of your soul to hire,
   No parley hold,—reject their suit,
   Nor let one seed the soil pollute.
   

   My son, their first approach beware,
   With firmness break the insidious snare,
   Lest, as the acorns grew and throve
   Into a sun-excluding grove,
   Thy sins, a dark, o'ershadowing tree,
   Shut out the light of heaven from thee.
   

8. My Alarm Clock

   by Amos Russel Wells

   
   

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   There's a little dumpy sergeant that calls me to the fray,
   Arousing me from slumber at five o'clock each day.
   At five o'clock precisely he hammers at my door,
   And breaks in forty pieces my most delightful snore.

   This little dumpy sergeant, so prompt and so precise,
   He calls me once with vigor, but he never calls me twice.
   If I choose not to hear him and shut my eyes again,
   Why, I may wake myself up at—nine o'clock or ten.

   There's another little sergeant, who hammers on my heart;
   Who pommels me so briskly he makes me sting and smart.
   While I lie down in darkness and shut my eyes to sin,
   This little sergeant, Conscience, awakes me with his din.

   But ah, this little sergeant, so prompt and so precise,
   He also seldom calls me but once or twice or thrice.
   "Wake up!" he cries, "arouse you, or sleep forevermore!"
   Ah, heed the little sergeant while he is at the door!

9. Conscience

   by J. R. Eastwood

   
   

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   Deep down in every human heart
   By storms of passion stirred,
   The springs of purer impulse start—
   A pleading voice is heard.
   

   It whispers sweet in childhood's years,
   And firmly speaks in youth,
   When what we lose is worth our tears,
   But not our love of truth.
   

   This voice rebukes the harsh resolve
   When manhood's pride is high;
   And day by day, while days revolve,
   It teaches age to die.
   

   This voice, O God, that pleads within,
   Incline our hearts to hear.
   Till in Thy sight, made free from sin,
   Through Christ, we all appear.
   

10. True Loveliness

    by Charles Swain

    
    

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    She who thinks a noble heart
    Better than a noble mien—
    Honors virtue more than art,
    Though 'tis less in fashion seen—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!
    

    She who deems that inward grace
    Far surpasses outward show,
    She who values less the face
    Than that charm the soul can throw,—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!
    

    She who knows the heart requires
    Something more than lips of dew—
    That when Love's brief rose expires,
    Love itself dies with it too—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!
    

11. My Kingdom

    by Louisa May Alcott

    
    

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    A little kingdom I possess,
    Where thoughts and feelings dwell,
    And very hard I find the task
    Of governing it well;
    For passion tempts and troubles me,
    A wayward will misleads,
    And selfishness its shadow casts
    On all my words and deeds.
    

    How can I learn to rule myself,
    To be the child I should,
    Honest and brave, nor ever tire
    Of trying to be good?
    How can I keep a sunny soul
    To shine along life's way?
    How can I tune my little heart
    To sweetly sing all day?
    

    Dear Father, help me with the love
    That casteth out my fear;
    Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
    That thou art very near,
    That no temptation is unseen,
    No childish grief too small,
    Since thou, with patience infinite,
    Doth soothe and comfort all.
    

    I do not ask for any crown
    But that which all may win,
    Nor seek to conquer any world
    Except the one within.
    Be thou my guide until I find,
    Led by a tender hand,
    Thy happy kingdom in myself,
    And dare to take command.
    

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