In the last 15 or 20 years, I've watched the British press simply go to hell. There seems to be no limit, no depths to which the tabloids won't sink. I don't know who these people are but they're little pigs.
quote by John Le Carre
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)
Introduction
In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.
Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.
Prologue
The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain
mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact
that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals
becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,
who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight
in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.
Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Great Pig Story of the Tweed
“Hands off, old man!” the young man cried—
They stood beside the Tweed,
Where still the name of Murder Creek
Records some bloody deed.
The old man seized the hapless youth,
With frantic grasp and rough,
By what is popularly called
(But vulgarly) the scruff;
And shouted as he twirled him round,
And shook him to and fro,
“Was them consignments pigs? . . Great Scott!
Was them things pigs or no?”
Wild-eyed and gaunt, and grim he stood,
Beneath the scorching noon,—
Cantharides P. Roebuck, late
Of the steamboat Arakoon.
He was an ancient mariner,
A Yankee skipper he,
Whom winds of adverse destiny
Had blown across the sea;—
Whom hither still had Fate pursued,
And served with many a trick,
Till now he roamed the Tweed a one-
Idea'd lunatic;—
Whom all men shunned, for whosoe'er
Upon his beat might chance,
Was bound to hear his tale in each
Minutest circumstance.
A tale that haunted such as heard,
Nor left them night or day;
A torturing enigma, too,
That turned their wits astray;—
For ofttimes they, like him who told,
Would vaguely wandering go,
And cry, “Was them consignments pigs?
Was them things pigs or no?”
“Hands off!” again the young man cried.
“It's this way, boss, you see,
We've come a stretch of thirty mile,
Her uncle, her, an' me.
[...] Read more
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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The Queen of Jhansi
1st Stanza
The throne was shaken and tensions rose among the Raajvanshs, the royal heirs,
In aged India, new ideas were taking hold,
The people of all India lamented their lost freedom,
And decided to cast off British rule,
Old swords glittered anew as the freedom movement of 1857 started.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
2nd Stanza
She was as dear to the Nana (Nana Ghunghupant) of Kanpur as his real sister,
Laxmibai was her name, her parents only daughter
She'd been with Nana since her schoolgirl days
The spear, knife, sword, and axe were her constant companions.
She knew by heart the tales of valor of Shivaji
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
3rd Stanza
None were sure, was she Laxmi or Durga devi or Devi durga reincarnate?
The people of Marathward were awed by her (expertise) skill with the sword,
They learned from her how to fight, the strategy of war,
To attack and humiliate the enemy were her favorite sports.
Her love for Maharashatra-kul-Devi was equaled only by her love for Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
8) So was the Queen of Jhansi.
4th Stanza
Laxmibai was married in Jhansi, with great jubilation
Entering the joyous city as Queen,
Grand celebrations were held in the palace in Jhansi, in honor of her coming.
Just as when Chitra met Arjun or Shiv had found his beloved Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
5th Stanza
Her presence was a blessing at the palace of Jhansi and candles of celebration burned long
But as days passed the dark clouds of misfortune overshadowed the royal palace.
She put aside her bangles and prepared for battle
For fate was unkind and made her a widow
[...] Read more
poem by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan
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Say Brah
[master p]
Say brah,
I got to say wassup to all the soldiers and soldierettes
And to this district system free
Soulja slim
Cause they jocking our style ya heard me?
[mac] (master p)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
What you bout? i'm bout war
What you bout? i'm bout war
[mac]
Say brah
You fake thugs best to get out the way brah
You wanna stop the tank you better pray brah
I'm a tiger, my flow be deadly just like a kabra
Get to bustin', old folks be hustlin', talking bout hey
Don't you play with him wodie he ain't afraid to spray brah
His little partners come through with choppers in broad day brah
Thugs like 50 dollars and fiend,
Thugs like magic, wiz, woo, ween, and my auntie b
Tell them fakers we back and there ain't no stoppin my doggss
Bezzled up a few haters and feds watching my doggs
And we on the grind, in '99 we let you all shine
Now that army is back so i'm back taking what's mine
I'm representing these gold tanks with the ice in it
Hated the likes and see it, these niggas nice with it
Thugged out, tru 2 da game, livin' up to my name
So when you the that soldier gear on my frame you holla
[mac] (master p)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Say brah (no limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (no limit)
We bout war
What you bout? i'm bout war
What you bout? i'm bout war
[master p]
[...] Read more
song performed by 504 Boyz
Added by Lucian Velea
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Say Brah (Radio)
[Master P]
Say Brah,
I got to say wassup to all the soldiers and soldierettes
and to this district system free Soulja Slim
cause they jocking our style ya heard me?
[Mac (Master P)]
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
What you bout? I'm bout war
What you bout? I'm bout war
[Mac]
Say Brah
You fake thugs best to get out the way brah
You wanna stop the tank you better pray brah
I'm a tiger, my flow be deadly just like a kabra
get to bustin', old folks be hustlin', talking bout hey
Don't you play with him wodie he ain't afraid to spray brah
His little partners come through with choppers in broad day brah
Thugs like 50 Dollars and Fiend,
thugs like Magic, Wiz, Woo, Ween, and my auntie B
Tell them fakers we back and there ain't no stoppin my doggss
bezzled up a few haters and Feds watching my doggs
and we on the grind, in '99 we let you all shine
now that army is back so I'm back taking what's mine
I'm representing these gold tanks with the ice in it
hated the likes and see it, these niggas nice with it
Thugged out, Tru 2 Da Game, livin' up to my name
so when you the that soldier gear on my frame you holla
[Mac (Master P)]
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Say Brah (No Limit)
Will you please get up out they way brah? (No Limit)
We bout war
What you bout? I'm bout war
What you bout? I'm bout war
[Master P]
Hoody Hoo!
[...] Read more
song performed by 504 Boyz
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Odyssey: Book 14
Ulysses now left the haven, and took the rough track up through
the wooded country and over the crest of the mountain till he
reached the place where Minerva had said that he would find the
swineherd, who was the most thrifty servant he had. He found him
sitting in front of his hut, which was by the yards that he had
built on a site which could be seen from far. He had made them
spacious and fair to see, with a free ran for the pigs all round them;
he had built them during his master's absence, of stones which he
had gathered out of the ground, without saying anything to Penelope or
Laertes, and he had fenced them on top with thorn bushes. Outside
the yard he had run a strong fence of oaken posts, split, and set
pretty close together, while inside lie had built twelve sties near
one another for the sows to lie in. There were fifty pigs wallowing in
each sty, all of them breeding sows; but the boars slept outside and
were much fewer in number, for the suitors kept on eating them, and
die swineherd had to send them the best he had continually. There were
three hundred and sixty boar pigs, and the herdsman's four hounds,
which were as fierce as wolves, slept always with them. The
swineherd was at that moment cutting out a pair of sandals from a good
stout ox hide. Three of his men were out herding the pigs in one place
or another, and he had sent the fourth to town with a boar that he had
been forced to send the suitors that they might sacrifice it and
have their fill of meat.
When the hounds saw Ulysses they set up a furious barking and flew
at him, but Ulysses was cunning enough to sit down and loose his
hold of the stick that he had in his hand: still, he would have been
torn by them in his own homestead had not the swineherd dropped his ox
hide, rushed full speed through the gate of the yard and driven the
dogs off by shouting and throwing stones at them. Then he said to
Ulysses, "Old man, the dogs were likely to have made short work of
you, and then you would have got me into trouble. The gods have
given me quite enough worries without that, for I have lost the best
of masters, and am in continual grief on his account. I have to attend
swine for other people to eat, while he, if he yet lives to see the
light of day, is starving in some distant land. But come inside, and
when you have had your fill of bread and wine, tell me where you
come from, and all about your misfortunes."
On this the swineherd led the way into the hut and bade him sit
down. He strewed a good thick bed of rushes upon the floor, and on the
top of this he threw the shaggy chamois skin- a great thick one- on
which he used to sleep by night. Ulysses was pleased at being made
thus welcome, and said "May Jove, sir, and the rest of the gods
grant you your heart's desire in return for the kind way in which
you have received me."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, "Stranger, though a still
poorer man should come here, it would not be right for me to insult
him, for all strangers and beggars are from Jove. You must take what
you can get and be thankful, for servants live in fear when they
have young lords for their masters; and this is my misfortune now, for
heaven has hindered the return of him who would have been always
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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You Watched It Close Under Microscope
You watched it close under microscope.
Closer than anything you watched most
You watched it close under microscope.
Closer than anything you watched most
And now you don't believe,
What you see.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close...
And still you don't believe,
What's there to see.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close...
And still you don't believe,
What's there to see.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close...
And...
Not to believe.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
And still you don't believe.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
And there to plainly see.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
And still you don't believe.
What's there to see.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
And there to plainly see.
But you can't believe it masked.
You watched it close under microscope.
You watched it close under microscope.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
[...] Read more
poem by Tom Zart
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Sister Helen
"Why did you melt your waxen man
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)
"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropp'd away!"
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinn'd wax red as blood!"
"Nay now, when look'd you yet on blood,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I'll play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
[...] Read more
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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M'Fingal - Canto IV
Now Night came down, and rose full soon
That patroness of rogues, the Moon;
Beneath whose kind protecting ray,
Wolves, brute and human, prowl for prey.
The honest world all snored in chorus,
While owls and ghosts and thieves and Tories,
Whom erst the mid-day sun had awed,
Crept from their lurking holes abroad.
On cautious hinges, slow and stiller,
Wide oped the great M'Fingal's cellar,
Where safe from prying eyes, in cluster,
The Tory Pandemonium muster.
Their chiefs all sitting round descried are,
On kegs of ale and seats of cider;
When first M'Fingal, dimly seen,
Rose solemn from the turnip-bin.
Nor yet his form had wholly lost
Th' original brightness it could boast,
Nor less appear'd than Justice Quorum,
In feather'd majesty before 'em.
Adown his tar-streak'd visage, clear
Fell glistening fast th' indignant tear,
And thus his voice, in mournful wise,
Pursued the prologue of his sighs.
"Brethren and friends, the glorious band
Of loyalty in rebel land!
It was not thus you've seen me sitting,
Return'd in triumph from town-meeting;
When blust'ring Whigs were put to stand,
And votes obey'd my guiding hand,
And new commissions pleased my eyes;
Blest days, but ah, no more to rise!
Alas, against my better light,
And optics sure of second-sight,
My stubborn soul, in error strong,
Had faith in Hutchinson too long.
See what brave trophies still we bring
From all our battles for the king;
And yet these plagues, now past before us,
Are but our entering wedge of sorrows!
"I see, in glooms tempestuous, stand
The cloud impending o'er the land;
That cloud, which still beyond their hopes
Serves all our orators with tropes;
[...] Read more
poem by John Trumbull
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An Ode To A Saint Of Peace
An Ode to a Saint of Non-Violence – Mahatma Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
He came from a non-descript Indian place
A village which would not have a place
In Her Majesty’s palace’ grace
What could this man for India raise?
When the Indian nation reeled
Under a foreign yoke
This frail man with iron will
Preached a master stroke
He visualized violence was no funnel
To get to the end of the tunnel
That the spring of freedom would gurgle
For the Indian freedom struggle
It is not arms and blood
Or revenge, violence or death
That will get India freedom
From the British kingdom
They can take away our right
They can make their sticks bite
They can take us to gaol
But they cannot take away our soul!
Protests with no violence
Will shake their conscience
It is the only way
For the British to loose its sway
Despite British scorn
And ire of critics
He made every Indian “re-born”
And friends of skeptics
Respect for all and love for mankind
He preached & practiced
He made every Indian aware
And the British beware
When the British enacted suppressive laws
This soul bonded us with his non-violent straw
His simplicity and truthfulness held all in awe
He gave us belief, pride and strength not to thaw
In 1930 Gandhi gave a key freedom call
Civil disobedience was the mantra for all
Salt Tax was the symbol of oppression
[...] Read more
poem by Arvind Chandak
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You've Been Watched
You've been watched.
No matter what you think you have,
Or haven't got.
You've been watched a lot.
You've been watched.
No matter what you think you have,
Or haven't got.
You've been watched a lot.
Whenever you misbehave,
You've been watched a lot.
Whatever it is you say,
You've been watched a lot.
It would behoove if you,
Turned it up a notched.
You've been watched.
No matter what you think you have,
Or haven't got.
You've been watched a lot.
You've been watched.
No matter what you might have,
Or might have not.
You've been watched a lot.
There are snoopers dedicated.
You've been watched a lot.
No matter how careful you make it.
You've been watched a lot.
Even simple things you do...
They may say you do that too!
You've been watched.
No matter what you think you have,
Or haven't got.
You've been watched a lot.
You've been watched.
No matter what you think you have,
Or haven't got.
You are being watched nonstop.
There are snoopers dedicated.
You've been watched a lot.
No matter how careful you make it.
You've been watched a lot.
Even simple things you do...
They may say you do that too!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Skies The Limit
Written by christine mcvie
If Ive been acting just a little strange
And you have noticed it too
Its cos my life has been rearranged
With the presence of you
The sky is the limit now
We can hit it on the nail
And when we do
Ill think about you
How can we fail
Can you give me one reason why
Youd ever let me down
I wont believe it baby, but Ill try
The truths goin to come around
The sky is the limit now
We can hit it on the nail
And when we do
Ill think about you
How can we fail
The sky is the limit
Oh the sky is the limit
How can we fail
Sooner or later
Ill keep the promise
I made to you
Sooner or later
It will be greater
Then we ever knew
The sky is the limit now
We can hit it on the nail
And when we do
Ill think about you
The sky is the limit now
We can hit it on the nail
And when we do
Ill think about you
How can we fail
The sky is the limit
Oh the sky is the limit
How can we fail
Oh the sky is the limit
How can we fail
The sky is the limit
Oh the sky is the limit
How can we fail
The sky is the limit
Oh the sky is the limit
How can we fail
The sky is the limit
Oh the sky is the limit
[...] Read more
song performed by Fleetwood Mac
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Capture of Havana
'Twas in the year 1762 that France and Spain
Resolved, allied together, to crush Britain;
But the British Army sailed from England in May,
And arrived off Havana without any delay.
And the British Army resolved to operate on land,
And the appearance of the British troops were really grand;
And by the Earl of Albemarle the British troops were commanded,
All eager for to fight as soon as they were landed.
Arduous and trying was the work the British had to do,
Yet with a hearty goodwill they to it flew;
While the tropical sun on them blazed down,
But the poor soldiers wrought hard and didn't frown.
The bombardment was opened on the 30th of June,
And from the British battleships a fierce cannonade did boom;
And continued from six in the morning till two o'clock in the afternoon,
And with grief the French and Spaniards sullenly did gloom.
And by the 26th of July the guns of Fort Moro were destroyed,
And the French and Spaniards were greatly annoyed;
Because the British troops entered the Fort without dismay,
And drove them from it at the bayonet charge without delay.
But for the safety of the city the Governor organised a night attack,
Thinking to repulse the British and drive them back;
And with fifteen hundred militia he did the British attack,
But the British trench guards soon drove them back.
Then the Spandiards were charged and driven down the hill,
At the point of the bayonet sore against their will;
And they rushed to their boats, the only refuge they could find,
Leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind.
Then Lieutenant Forbes, at the head of his men,
Swept round the ramparts driving all before them;
And with levelled bayonets they drove them to and fro,
Then the British flag was hoisted over the bastions of Moro.
Then the Governor of the castle fell fighting sword in hand,
While rallying his men around the flagstaff the scene was grand;
And the Spaniards fought hard to save their ships of war,
But the British destroyed their ships and scattered them afar.
And every man in the Moro Fort was bayonet or shot,
Which in Spanish history will never be forgot;
And on the 10th of August Lord Albemarle sent a flag of truce,
And summoned the Governor to surrender, but he seemed to refuse.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Battle of Waterloo
'Twas in the year 1815, and on the 18th day of June,
That British cannon, against the French army, loudly did boom,
Upon the ever memorable bloody field of Waterloo;
Which Napoleon remembered while in St. Helena, and bitterly did rue.
The morning of the 18th was gloomy and cheerless to behold,
But the British soon recovered from the severe cold
That they had endured the previous rainy night;
And each man prepared to burnish his arms for the coming fight.
Then the morning passed in mutual arrangements for battle,
And the French guns, at half-past eleven, loudly did rattle;
And immediately the order for attack was given,
Then the bullets flew like lightning till the Heaven's seemed riven.
The place from which Bonaparte viewed the bloody field
Was the farmhouse of La Belle Alliance, which some protection did yield;
And there he remained for the most part of the day,
Pacing to and fro with his hands behind him in doubtful dismay.
The Duke of Wellington stood upon a bridge behind La Haye,
And viewed the British army in all their grand array,
And where danger threatened most the noble Duke was found
In the midst of shot and shell on every side around.
Hougemont was the key of the Duke of Wellington's position,
A spot that was naturally very strong, and a great acqusition
To the Duke and his staff during the day,
Which the Coldstream Guards held to the last, without dismay.
The French 2nd Corps were principally directed during the day
To carry Hougemont farmhouse without delay;
So the farmhouse in quick succession they did attack,
But the British guns on the heights above soon drove them back.
But still the heavy shot and shells ploughed through the walls;
Yet the brave Guards resolved to hold the place no matter what befalls;
And they fought manfully to the last, with courage unshaken,
Until the tower of Hougemont was in a blaze but still it remained untaken.
By these desperate attacks Napoleon lost ten thousand men,
And left them weltering in their gore like sheep in a pen;
And the British lost one thousand men-- which wasn't very great,
Because the great Napoleon met with a crushing defeat.
The advance of Napoleon on the right was really very fine,
Which was followed by a general onset upon the British line,
In which three hundred pieces of artillery opened their cannonade;
But the British artillery played upon them, and great courage displayed.
For ten long hours it was a continued succession of attacks;
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Paradise Lost: Book 02
High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth or Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught,
His proud imaginations thus displayed:--
"Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!--
For, since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen,
I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent
Celestial Virtues rising will appear
More glorious and more dread than from no fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate!--
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven,
Did first create your leader--next, free choice
With what besides in council or in fight
Hath been achieved of merit--yet this loss,
Thus far at least recovered, hath much more
Established in a safe, unenvied throne,
Yielded with full consent. The happier state
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferior; but who here
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good
For which to strive, no strife can grow up there
From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell
Precedence; none whose portion is so small
Of present pain that with ambitious mind
Will covet more! With this advantage, then,
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
More than can be in Heaven, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to prosper than prosperity
Could have assured us; and by what best way,
Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate. Who can advise may speak."
He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king,
Stood up--the strongest and the fiercest Spirit
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.
His trust was with th' Eternal to be deemed
Equal in strength, and rather than be less
Cared not to be at all; with that care lost
Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse,
He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:--
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poem by John Milton
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
THE ARGUMENT
RINTRAH roars and shakes his
fires in the burdenM air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
Once meek, and in a perilous path
The just man kept his course along
The Vale of Death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.
Then the perilous path was planted,
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb;
5
THE MARRIAGE OF
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth:
Till the villain left the paths of ease
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility ;
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where Uons roam.
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in
the burdened air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
As a new heaven is begun, and it is
now thirty-three years since its advent,
the Eternal Hell revives. And lo!
Swedenborg is the angel sitting at
the tomb: his writings are the Unen
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poem by William Blake
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