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They might in the future more than ever before engage in hunting beavers.

quote by Samuel de Champlain
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Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis, The

Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the village,
Found the people in confusion,
Heard of all the misdemeanors,
All the malice and the mischief,
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis.
Hard his breath came through his nostrils,
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered
Words of anger and resentment,
Hot and humming, like a hornet.
"I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Slay this mischief-maker!" said he.
"Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
That my wrath shall not attain him,
That my vengeance shall not reach him!"
Then in swift pursuit departed
Hiawatha and the hunters
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Through the forest, where he passed it,
To the headlands where he rested;
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Only in the trampled grasses,
In the whortleberry-bushes,
Found the couch where he had rested,
Found the impress of his body.
From the lowlands far beneath them,
From the Muskoday, the meadow,
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward,
Made a gesture of defiance,
Made a gesture of derision;
And aloud cried Hiawatha,
From the summit of the mountains:
"Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
But my wrath shall overtake you,
And my vengeance shall attain you!"
Over rock and over river,
Through bush, and brake, and forest,
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Like an antelope he bounded,
Till he came unto a streamlet
In the middle of the forest,
To a streamlet still and tranquil,
That had overflowed its margin,
To a dam made by the beavers,
To a pond of quiet water,
Where knee-deep the trees were standing,
Where the water lilies floated,
Where the rushes waved and whispered.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis

Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the village,
Found the people in confusion,
Heard of all the misdemeanors,
All the malice and the mischief,
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis.
Hard his breath came through his nostrils,
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered
Words of anger and resentment,
Hot and humming, like a hornet.
"I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Slay this mischief-maker!" said he.
"Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
That my wrath shall not attain him,
That my vengeance shall not reach him!"
Then in swift pursuit departed
Hiawatha and the hunters
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Through the forest, where he passed it,
To the headlands where he rested;
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Only in the trampled grasses,
In the whortleberry-bushes,
Found the couch where he had rested,
Found the impress of his body.
From the lowlands far beneath them,
From the Muskoday, the meadow,
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward,
Made a gesture of defiance,
Made a gesture of derision;
And aloud cried Hiawatha,
From the summit of the mountains:
"Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
But my wrath shall overtake you,
And my vengeance shall attain you!"
Over rock and over river,
Through bush, and brake, and forest,
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Like an antelope he bounded,
Till he came unto a streamlet
In the middle of the forest,
To a streamlet still and tranquil,
That had overflowed its margin,
To a dam made by the beavers,
To a pond of quiet water,
Where knee-deep the trees were standing,
Where the water lilies floated,
Where the rushes waved and whispered.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Song Of Hiawatha XVII: The Hunting Of Pau-Puk Keewis

Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the village,
Found the people in confusion,
Heard of all the misdemeanors,
All the malice and the mischief,
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis.
Hard his breath came through his nostrils,
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered
Words of anger and resentment,
Hot and humming, like a hornet.
'I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Slay this mischief-maker!' said he.
'Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
That my wrath shall not attain him,
That my vengeance shall not reach him!'
Then in swift pursuit departed
Hiawatha and the hunters
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Through the forest, where he passed it,
To the headlands where he rested;
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Only in the trampled grasses,
In the whortleberry-bushes,
Found the couch where he had rested,
Found the impress of his body.
From the lowlands far beneath them,
From the Muskoday, the meadow,
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward,
Made a gesture of defiance,
Made a gesture of derision;
And aloud cried Hiawatha,
From the summit of the mountains:
'Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
But my wrath shall overtake you,
And my vengeance shall attain you!'
Over rock and over river,
Through bush, and brake, and forest,
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Like an antelope he bounded,
Till he came unto a streamlet
In the middle of the forest,
To a streamlet still and tranquil,
That had overflowed its margin,
To a dam made by the beavers,
To a pond of quiet water,
Where knee-deep the trees were standing,
Where the water lilies floated,
Where the rushes waved and whispered.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Future Babies

A flower stands erect upon the stem.

Odd:
It bears the naked flesh of many men –
Pulsing, writhing, arteries humming;
Androgenic fluids chase their channels
To the ground, caking at a mound
Of naked girls, who pout in doubt and
Hurl their rabid glares from eyes
That catch the light of want
And desperation.

Sighs:
They know the separation
Stays their open legs
From bursting cocks.

Masturbation of the mind
Is all they need –
They’re in the docks of
Fate:
The evil Overpopulation’s out to feed
Their thund’rous urge to procreate!

Forget the conjugation, just for once?
Bag the bulbous tits in bras.
I know they want the tongue on c*nts;

But focus! Where’s the room to live?
And think about the future babies.

THINK:

You know they won’t forgive
Your selfish drive to suck, to shag.
The Dying Age of Man will drag
Him down to disappear.

So keep the girls away from sperm –
Don’t let the men up there!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Modern Girl

Once a beautiful miss america married mr. right
Had a little baby girl, born on a stormy night
But that was once upon a time, now its a brand new world
Gimme the future, gimme the future, gimme the future with a modern girl
Gimme the future, gimme the future, gimme the future with a modern girl
Somewhere just between the past and somethin dawnin new
Theres a break in the chain, theres a skip in the clock
Girl thats where Im gonna find you
Between the boy I was before and what Im gonna be
Theres a clash on the border, a flame in the sky
Girl thats where youre gonna find me
Cant you hear the planet groanin like a broken down machine
Rusted with the guilty tears of fallen kings and queens
But you and I stand innocent, baby its a brand new world
Gimme the future, gimme the future, gimme the future with a modern girl
Gimme the future, gimme the future, gimme the future with a modern girl
(gimme the future, gimme the future, gimme the future with a modern girl)
Bridge:
Were the son and the daughter on a new freeway
(gimme the future, gimme the future)
Laughin while the road maps blow away
(gimme the future with a modern girl)
Were the son and the daughter and we aint afraid
(gimme the future, gimme the future)
Wont be makin the mistakes our fathers made
(gimme the future with a modern girl)
(gimme the future, gimme the future) oh, gimme the future with a modern girl
(gimme the future, gimme the future) oh, gimme the future with a modern girl
Once a beautiful miss america married mr. right
Had a little baby boy, born on a stormy night
But that was once upon a time, now its a brand new world
Gimme the future, gimme the future - gimme the future with a modern girl...
(repeats out)
(bridge)

song performed by Meat Loaf
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hunters Of Men

HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen,
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men?
The lords of our land to this hunting have gone,
As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn;
Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip,
And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip!
All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match,
Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch.
So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen,
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men!
Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ride
In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride!
The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind,
Just screening the politic statesman behind;
The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer,
The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there.
And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid,
For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid:
Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein,
How blithely she rides to the hunting of men!
Oh, goodly and grand is our hunting to see,
In this 'land of the brave and this home of the free.'
Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine,
All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein;
Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin
Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin!
Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay!
Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey?
Will their hearts fail within them? their nerves tremble, when
All roughly they ride to the hunting of men?
Ho! alms for our hunters! all weary and faint,
Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint.
The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still,
Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill.
Haste, alms for our hunters! the hunted once more
Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore:
What right have they here in the home of the white,
Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right?
Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again
Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men!
Alms, alms for our hunters! why will ye delay,
When their pride and their glory are melting away?
The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own,
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone?
The politic statesman looks back with a sigh,
There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his eye.
Oh, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail,
And the head of his steed take the place of the tail.
Oh, haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then,
For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men?

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Hunting High And Low

Typed by fjonkman@hotmail.com
Hunting High and Low:
Here I am
And within the reach of my hand
She's sound asleep
And she's sweeter now
Than the wildest dream
Could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
But I know I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go to
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
She's the sweetest love
I could find
So I guess I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
High and low
Ah, do you know what it means
To love you
I'm hunting high and low
And now she's telling me
She's got to go away
I'll always be hunting high and low
Only for you (And now she's telling me)
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
For you I'll be hunting high and low

song performed by A-Ha
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Forest Greeting

GOOD hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the forests call;
But ever a heart beats hot with fear,
And what of the birds that fall?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the north winds blow;
But what of the stag that calls for his mate?
And what of the wounded doe?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And ah! we are bold and strong;
But our triumph call through the forest hall
Is a brother's funeral song.
For we are brothers ever,
Panther and bird and bear;
Man and the weakest that fear his face,
Born to the nest or lair.
Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us?
Hunters and game are we;
But who gave the right for me to smite?
Who boasts when he smiteth me?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And dim is the forest track;
But the sportsman Death comes striding on:
Brothers, the way is black.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Back To The Future

(diana ross/bill wray/jim wray)
Every days a new beginning
Thats what I stand for
Since our possibilities
In a world out of control
Youre looking for a miracle
To spray the air feel the rain
Since youre out of control
Married to pain
Which way forever
Which way will I go
Which way forever
Theres no heroes
Take me back, take me out
Back to the future
Back to the future
Change your thinking
Change your mind
Back to the future
Close your eyes and pretend
That youre a bird in the sky
Turn your face to the wind
I know you can learn to fly
Which way forever
Which way will I go
Which way forever
Theres no heroes
Take me back, take me out
Back to the future
Back to the future
Change your thinking
Change your mind
Back to the future
Back to the future
Take me back, take me out
Back to the future
Back to the future
Change your thinking
Change your mind
Back to the future
Back to the future
Believe you can be
Believe that you can
You can make a stay
We can change the world
I know we can
You gotta take me back, take me out
Back to the future
Back to the future
Change your thinking

[...] Read more

song performed by Diana Ross
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Accordingly

someday everyone will be wise in the future
everyone will be sensible and forward thinking
wear sensible shoes and act accordingly in the future
wise action according to everyone will be the act
of the future everyone will be futuristic someday
according to god according to everyone and their shoes
in the future everyone will be godless and free
act accordingly in the future or else
play accordions wisely in your godless future
in the future accordions will play themselves

act three in the future: there will be no accordions
everyone will get nostalgic for the accordion god
and act as if they were wise in the future
everyone will be according to god
in the future everyone will not act accordingly
wisdom is unholy in the future
to act accordingly is to stay out of trouble
in the future jails will be bigger and much better
everyone will need some punishment in the future
thinking of accordions will be a crime

lawrence welk is a revolutionary in the future
to act accordingly is to act with wisdom
everyone will act as one in the future
accordingly for everyone to act
in the future everyone will be discredited
everyone must act now to avoid the future
be wise and dont act accordingly
play accordions in the street the future cannot
wait for wisdom and forced accord
one chord might save the future

poem by Stephen Roxborough
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Future, Future Before and Future From The Future: Journey:

O'er the hills,
hills on land,
o'er the land,
land on water,
o'er the water.
water on land,
land on water again.
And again, again...

And so it goes,
to infinity, i see.
: deep thinkers discern:
travelling in the soul,
i went,
muscle stonger than ever,
flying high into SEVENTH HEAVEN,
soaring like the eagle,
with mystery more than,
MYSTERY OF THE PHANTOM FLAME,
but in the body im weak.
Here i lie,
thinking of,
great things.

Was i a weak soul?

Gently in my couch,
i rest,
viewing the infinity,
FUTURE! !

I looked o'er the future,
over the infinity,
i passed hills,
savannas
oceans,
then future.

But in soul not in body.

Was i the weak soul?

I saw what future awaits,
the poor soul.
Who has been living in future,
before time.
Now its the time,
he's doomed.
All things upside down.
I saw eyes red,

[...] Read more

poem by Shalomj THE MESSAGE
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The Future

Im not gonna kill you. I want you to do me a favor,
I want you to tell all your friends about me.
What are you?
Im batman!
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it works
And if theres life after, we will see
So I cant go like a jerk
Systematic overthrow of the underclass
Hollywood conjures images of the past
New world needs spiritually
That will last
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it works
And if theres life after, we will see
So I cant go like a jerk
Yellow smiley offers me x
Like hes drinking seven up
I would rather drink 6 razor blades
Razor blades from a paper cup
He cant understand, I say 2 tough
Its just that Ive seen the future
And boy its rough
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it works
And if theres life after, we will see
So u cant go like a jerk
No, no
Ive seen the future and it will be
Wait a minute
Pretty pony standing on the avenue
Flashin a loaded pistol, 2 dumb 2 be true
Somebody told him playin cops and robbers was cool
Would our rap have been different if we only knew?
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it works
If theres life after, we will see
Dont go out like a jerk
Systematic overthrow of the underclass
Hollywood conjures images of the past
New world needs spiritually
That will last
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Ive seen the future and it will be
Think about the future

song performed by Prince
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Hunting High & Low

Here I am
And within the reach of my hands
Shes sound asleep and shes sweeter now
Than thewildest dream could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
Though I know Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
Shes the sweetest love I could find
So I guess Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
High and low
High
Do you know what it means to love you
Im hunting high and low
And now shes telling me shes got to go away
Ill always be hunting high and low
Hungry for you
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
Oh! for you Ill be hunting high and low

song performed by A-Ha
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Vida's Game Of Chess

TRANSLATED

ARMIES of box that sportively engage
And mimic real battles in their rage,
Pleased I recount; how, smit with glory's charms,
Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms,
Sable and white; assist me to explore,
Ye Serian Nymphs, what ne'er was sung before.
No path appears: yet resolute I stray
Where youth undaunted bids me force my way.
O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue,
Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue.
For you the rise of this diversion know,
You first were pleased in Italy to show
This studious sport; from Scacchis was its name,
The pleasing record of your Sister's fame.

When Jove through Ethiopia's parch'd extent
To grace the nuptials of old Ocean went,
Each god was there; and mirth and joy around
To shores remote diffused their happy sound.
Then when their hunger and their thirst no more
Claim'd their attention, and the feast was o'er;
Ocean with pastime to divert the thought,
Commands a painted table to be brought.
Sixty-four spaces fill the chequer'd square;
Eight in each rank eight equal limits share.
Alike their form, but different are their dyes,
They fade alternate, and alternate rise,
White after black; such various stains as those
The shelving backs of tortoises disclose.
Then to the gods that mute and wondering sate,
You see (says he) the field prepared for fate.
Here will the little armies please your sight,
With adverse colours hurrying to the fight:
On which so oft, with silent sweet surprise,
The Nymphs and Nereids used to feast their eyes,
And all the neighbours of the hoary deep,
When calm the sea, and winds were lull'd asleep
But see, the mimic heroes tread the board;
He said, and straightway from an urn he pour'd
The sculptured box, that neatly seem'd to ape
The graceful figure of a human shape:--
Equal the strength and number of each foe,
Sixteen appear'd like jet, sixteen like snow.
As their shape varies various is the name,
Different their posts, nor is their strength the same.
There might you see two Kings with equal pride
Gird on their arms, their Consorts by their side;
Here the Foot-warriors glowing after fame,

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Between Dark Past and Future Flight

Between dark past and future flight
Effect and Cause we question quite,
rhyme time between midnight and noon
to read, mark, learn, digest this tune.
Soul travels far, ka’s second sight
scouts out from dune to blue lagoon -
with moral codes plays fey buffoon.

Between dark past and future flight
the butterfly finds wings for flight
although, in silk spin knit cocoon,
it knows not dawn from afternoon.
Mind mirage magic may excite
confusing notions – far and soon
merge premonition’s present boon.

Between dark past and future flight
trace space, expand and pace delight ~
from morn till midnight one should learn
to seed born insight, harvest earn,
bend to contentment very soon
ends, means, all harmonies attune
heart, soul, which whole from parts return.

Between dark past and future flight
now ‘stalac_might’ checks stalag tight
mankind evolved from the baboon
to trace his race pace picayune.
between the darkness and the light
most squander chances opportune
dreams rose themed spurned, they haste to tomb.
Vague contexts blurred, restrictions fight
unshadowed vision full, shy moon
casts spell whose pull’s forgot by noon.

Between dark past and future flight
The wheel spins on, ignores ‘wrong’, ‘right’
As light, dark, rainbow’s ark all churn
fear not fall near, nor rise call spurn.
Sandman plays game outside luck, blight,
for more than intellect's harpoon.
Hope blooms, may anguish, heartache, prune.

Between dark past and future flight
oft ‘Justice’ seems a notion quite
outside God’s scheme - ‘on joue le clown’
play insecurity immune
while mocking empty social rite

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Vision Of Columbus - Book 4

In one dark age, beneath a single hand,
Thus rose an empire in the savage land.
Her golden seats, with following years, increase,
Her growing nations spread the walks of peace,
Her sacred rites display the purest plan,
That e'er adorn'd the unguided mind of man.
Yet all the pomp, the extended climes unfold,
The fields of verdure and the towers of gold,
Those works of peace, and sovereign scenes of state,
In short-lived glory, hasten to their fate.
Thy followers, rushing like an angry flood,
Shall whelm the fields and stain the shrines in blood;
Nor thou, Las Casas, best of men, shalt stay
The ravening legions from their guardless prey.
Oh! hapless prelate, hero, saint and sage,
Doom'd with hard guilt a fruitless war to wage,
To see, with grief (thy life of virtues run)
A realm unpeopled and a world undone.
While impious Valverde, mock of priesthood, stands,
Guilt in his heart, the gospel in his hands,
Bids, in one field, unnumber'd squadrons bleed,
Smiles o'er the scene and sanctifies the deed.
And thou, brave Gasca, with thy virtuous train,
Shalt lift the sword and urge thy power in vain;
Vain, the late task, the sinking land to save,
Or call her slaughter'd millions from the grave.
The Seraph spoke. Columbus, with a sigh,
Cast o'er the hapless climes his moisten'd eye,
And thus return'd: Oh, hide me in the tomb;
Why should I live to view the impending doom?
If such dread scenes the scheme of heaven compose,
And virtuous toils induce redoubled woes,
Unfold no more; but grant a kind release,
Give me, 'tis all I ask, to rest in peace.
Thy soul shall rest in peace, the Power rejoin'd,
Ere these conflicting shades involve mankind:
But nobler views shall first thy mind engage,
Beyond the bounds of this destructive age;
Where happier fruits of thy unwearied toil,
Thro' future years, and other empires, smile.
Europe's contending realms shall soon behold
These fruitful plains and hills of opening gold,
Fair in the path of thy adventurous fail,
Their countless navies float in every gale,
For wealth and commerce, sweep the extended shore,
And load the ocean with the shining ore.
As, up the orient heaven, the dawning ray
Smiles o'er the world and gives the promised day;
Drives fraud and rapine from their nightly spoil,
And social nature wakes to peaceful toil;

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poem by Joel Barlow
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The Hunting of the Snark: An Agony in Eight Fits

Fit the First.
THE LANDING

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide

By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:

What I tell you three times is true."
The crew was complete: it included a Boots—
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods—
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes—

And a Broker, to value their goods.
A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share—
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,

Had the whole of their cash in his care.
There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,

Though none of the sailors knew how.
There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,

And the clothes he had bought for the trip.
He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pairs of boots—but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:

[...] Read more

poem by Lewis Carroll (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hunting of the Snark

Fit the First
THE LANDING

'Just the place for a Snark!' the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.

'Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What i tell you three times is true.'

The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-maker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pairs of boots--but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to 'Hi!' or to any loud cry,
Such as 'Fry me!' or 'Fritter my wig!'
To 'What-you-may-call-um!' or 'What-was-his-name!'
But especially 'Thing-um-a-jig!'

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:

[...] Read more

poem by Lewis Carroll
Added by Poetry Lover
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