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The secret of living in peace with all people lies in the art of understanding each one by his own individuality.

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The ultimate sin...

Or soul is black when it doesn't sing true,
How many lies must be told before they become true?
Your soul only exists because god gave you one,
And he shall take it and mould it, tell you where you belong...

And if you wish to live a better and worthwhile life,
Then pray to god to take away all of your strife.
A life without god is deemed to be hell,
Looking at the world today, how can we tell?

Let me be, let me breathe, let me live, let me die,
Reveal who I am and please tell me why.
Am I only here because god gave me life?
Yet his cosmic plan seems filled with strife...

We are all the masters of our own true goal,
So we are all the god that rules our soul.
Some choose to be prick's in a troublesome way,
For good and evil live with us each day...

If god really is the one who own's my soul,
Then what the hell is his ultimate goal?
For living my life with all of my kin,
Just seems to be my one true sin...

Spread the love... The peace will follow...

God has become the most popular scapegoat for man... Lets stop blaming the magic man that lives in the sky and realise... We're the one's that fucked it up... And we're the ones who can fix it...

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Mind is like monkey

Legend says" our mind is like monkey:
Always free to find ways with successful key
Go all over world, venture and come back
Mind is full of ideas and kept as secret in pack

It is with all people who claim to be in full control
Of their desire and act as per conscience call
It certainly deviates as soon as you try to be master
The ideas run all over globe even by all means faster

We may find same situation in payer halls
We are moved and feel grief when see picture on walls
The suffering and their work for mankind make us to weep
But we forget it so soon when come out of it and fail to keep

Such is unstable state of affair with mind
It doesn't allow us to concentrate and find
The real truth about and what it can turn
But in reality if that happens then limitless joy in return

The meditation takes you in another world
Where you find no hurry, worry and no bandage or fold
You are in free world to unite with divine energy
In fact not tried so far to get link with almighty

This is not religious activity that gives you hitch
You can plug the loops holes or stitch
Mind becomes single centre from where emanate some signals
That takes you far off the land and brings back brightness on arrivals

"You breathe is counted and death certain" everybody claim
So by meditation deep breath can be maintained
Holding it by control can increase you life span
Life then moves on smoothly without any definite plan

Morning time is appropriate and suitable
Human being is wise animal and capable
To harness the energy and suitably use
Life is to be fully enjoyed without being confused

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(Anti Greed Poem) Childs Demons

The demon speaks to me.
He writes all these squiggly lines.
They glow and come alive.
They become these characters dancing upon the pages in my mind.
Each one has his own name.
Jacob, John, Sarah and James.
Brothers sisters the way it should be.
A dad that always been their.
A mom that actually cares.
A refuge from the dead place I live in everyday.
A mastery of plays.
A white picket fence, painted so perfectly.
Erected out a child imagination.
Please he needs to be fed.
Can you not see hes living in filth and starvation.
But we always turn away.
Just burn it all to the ground.
Its okay just look into the clouds.
Ignorance is bliss but if you take it too far it becomes the ugliest indifference.
The creature manifest and comes to his own.
He starts corrupting the hearts and souls within.
Greed will be his tool to the absence minded fools.
To busy staring at their t.v.
Playing with their nifty gadgets.
Driving their fancy cars nice and warm.
No care in the world.
Why should they ever have to?
To blame, we should all have to write of what we are ashamed.
The nameless name.
A hollow tube stuck down some old mans throat not because he will live any longer.
But because it does not pay if he dies.
The world has been compromised.
Confidential are so many of the lies.
Put it all in the open.
Show us the contract in which sign on too the slavery of society that doesn't care about you.
Their is no golden rule that will forever protects you.
Go ahead just try to write something in stone.
A realization that in the end that you might be all alone.
Love is not freely given.
But always expected in return.
Always expected in return.

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Macarius The Monk

IN the old days, while yet the Church was young,
And men believed that praise of God was sung
In curbing self as well as singing psalms,
There lived a monk, Macarius by name,
A holy man, to whom the faithful came
With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word.
In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms,
He dwelt within the desert: from the marsh
He drank the brackish water, and his food
Was dates and roots,—and all his rule was harsh,
For pampered flesh in' those days warred with good.
From those who came in scores a few there were
Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer,
And these remained and took the hermit's vow.
A dozen saints there grew to be; and now
Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.
He taught his brethren all the lore he knew,
And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.
His whole intent was on the spirit's goal:
He taught them silence—words disturb the soul;
He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow,
And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow;
To know that human life alone was given
To prove the souls of those who merit heaven;
He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers,
And die to self, to live and work for others.
'For so,'' he said, 'we save our love and labors,
And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's.'

Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard,
He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the Word.
One day, beside the marsh they' labored long,—
For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,—
And when the cruel sun made hot the sand,
And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand
Tormenting stung, a passing traveler stood
And watched the workers by the reeking flood.
Macarius, nigh with heat and toil was faint;
The traveler saw, and to the suffering saint
A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw.
Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view,
A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine,
Macarius longed to taste. ' The fruit is mine,'
He said, and sighed; 'but I, who daily teach,
Feel now the bond to practice as I preach.'
He gave the cluster to the nearest one,
And with his heavy toil went patient on.

As one athirst will greet a flowing brim,
The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him
Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye
Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry
He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade.
And he who took, unknown to any other,
The sweet refreshment handed to a brother.
And so, from each to each, till round was made
The circuit wholly—when the grapes at last,
Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed.
'Now God be thanked! ' he cried, and ceased his toil;
'The seed was good, but better was the soil.
My brothers, join with me to bless the day.'
But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away.

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Our Blessings

Sitting to-day in the sunshine,
That touched me with fingers of love,
I thought of the manifold blessings
God scatters on earth, from above;
And they seemed, as I numbered them over,
Far more than we merit, or need,
And all that we lack is the angels
To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings,
The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes to fruition,
And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music,
The moonbeams ensilver the sea;
There is sunlight and beauty about us,
And the world is as fair as can be.

But mortals are always complaining,
Each one thinks his own a sad lot;
And forgetting the good things about him,
Goes mourning for those he has not.
Instead of the star-spangled heavens,
We look on the dust at our feet;
We drain out the cup that is bitter,
Forgetting the one that is sweet.

We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower,
Forgetting its odour and bloom;
We pass by a garden of blossoms,
To weep o'er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us, -
Like the leaves of the forest they grow;
And the fault is our own - not the Giver's -
That we have not an Eden below.

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Starving For Affection

The Prince within the Palace feasts, so shall the common man,
So shall the tame and callous beasts, because that is God's plan.
Regardless of this daily meal, we know some fast and pray,
Because their faith in God is real, yet what has God to say?

Through Jesus Christ, we learn to share, no matter, rich or poor.
From riches or what's left to spare, so others may get more.
And some need more or else they die! They, too, must eat and drink.
For each one needs his own supply, to do much more than think.

The starving think of food today, clean water here and now.
Tomorrow's coming on its way, what, then, will God allow?
Yet don't blame Him who made the Earth, the mountains and the seas.
Each one of us must prove his worth to bring the starving peace.

What use are riches none can eat? Yet money's known as bread.
It cannot make your soul complete, God's love does that instead.
That's why Lord Jesus shared out food, turned water into wine.
He tells us, 'Feed the multitude! ' How dare we, then, decline?

While Tear Fund waits, for us to act, the starving babies die!
It's up to us to face that fact, donate for food to buy.
Which one of us is friend or foe? Who feeds the Human Race?
The Lord above will surely know, each time when we say grace.

Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2011.

The poem is based on Howard Conder's report on the
Late Show,20th of July,2011. For Revelation TV's
Building The Foundation Trust, all donations were tithed,
to support Tear Fund's ministry to end world poverty.

Howard Conder told the viewers, 'One third eats well,
one third is under-nourished and one third is starving.'

We can watch Revelation TV on Sky UK and
the website's Watch Now Internet connection.

Website: revelationtv-dot-com
Website: tearfund-dot-org

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The Lord uses dispensations, to touch the heart of many nations,
This is a specific period of time, within The Lord’s Eternal Design,
When you see The Lord’s hand, working within a peoples or land.
It is during these times when, He’s dealing with the hearts of men.
The first was the Garden of Eden, the one before man knew of sin.
Man was given control over all; this was before Adam had his fall.
They were barred from one tree, but by Satan they were deceived.
For it was in Eden’s Garden, that man’s heart first was hardened.
Next is where things got worse, this is where God placed a curse,
Man was now banned from paradise; for this was sin’s awful price.

With sin now tainting His Plan, God would turn to a righteous man,
He would destroy all life on earth, but Noah, one with special worth.
God would start this world anew, by using Noah and his family too.
And God made a covenant with him, never to flood the earth again.
Next God turned to Abraham, making a covenant for a special land,
This would be the land of Israel, given promises that God shall fulfill.
A land that God would set apart; as it is very special to God’s heart.
It would be through this nation; God would bless and bring salvation.
God would then turn to Moses to, deliver out of bondage every Jew,
Out of Egypt they would come, returning to the land they were from.

Israel was given the Oracles of God, in the land that they would trod,
Moses was also given The Law, beginning redemption for man’s fall.
In the Palestinian dispensation, Israel is dispersed into every nation,
But God will indeed restore the land, by His Mighty Sovereign Hand.
Although it is His special nation, He wants to reach all with salvation,
And bring blessings to the cursed; in the nations they are dispersed.
This brings us back to David’s throne, for God’s nation on the roam,
God promised David one of his own, would always be on his throne.
David’s throne was promised to be, occupied through all of Eternity,
All the nations soon will see, David’s promise by God for prosperity,

This brings us to this dispensation, and this is one for every nation,
For presently in this Age of Grace, for every nation God has a place.
Many blessings spoke of to Israel, The Lord Jesus Christ shall fulfill,
For He is the Son of David friend, whose earthly reign will never end.
This is the New Covenant spoke of, Christ’s New Covenant of blood,
It is through the blood of Jesus Christ, who was God’s final sacrifice.
This covenant provides for every man, a place in God’s Eternal Plan,
It is God’s one and only salvation, not only for one, but every nation,
Redeeming men from every nation, while in God’s final dispensation.
And only through the blood of Christ, can man reenter into Paradise.

(Copyright ©06/2006)

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They took dead Cromwell from his grave,
And stuck his head on high;
The Merry Monarch and his men,
They laughed as they passed by
The common people cheered and jeered,
To England’s deep disgrace—
The crowds who’d ne’er have dared to look
Live Cromwell in the face.

He came in England’s direst need
With law and fire and sword,
He thrashed her enemies at home
And crushed her foes abroad;
He kept his word by sea and land,
His parliament he schooled,
He made the nations understand
A Man in England ruled!

Van Tromp, with twice the English ships,
And flushed by victory—
A great broom to his masthead bound—
Set sail to sweep the sea.
But England’s ruler was a man
Who needed lots of room—
So Blake soon lowered the Dutchman’s tone,
And smashed the Dutchman’s broom.

He sent a bill to Tuscany
For sixty thousand pounds,
For wrong done to his subjects there,
And merchants in her bounds.
He sent by Debt Collector Blake,
And—you need but be told
That, by the Duke of Tuscany
That bill was paid in gold.

To pirate ports in Africa
He sent a message grim
To have each captured Englishman
Delivered up to him;
And every ship and cargo’s worth,
And every boat and gun—
And this—all this, as Dickens says—
“Was gloriously done.”

They’d tortured English prisoners
Who’d sailed the Spanish Main;
So Cromwell sent a little bill
By Admiral Blake to Spain.
To keep his hand in, by the way.
He whipped the Portuguese;
And he made it safe for English ships
To sail the Spanish seas.

The Protestants in Southern lands
Had long been sore oppressed;
They sent their earnest prayers to Noll
To have their wrongs redressed.
He sent a message to the Powers,
In which he told them flat,
All men must praise God as they chose,
Or he would see to that.

And, when he’d hanged the fools at home
And settled foreign rows,
He found the time to potter round
Amongst his pigs and cows.
Of private rows he never spoke,
That grand old Ironsides.
They said a father’s strong heart broke
When Cromwell’s daughter died.

(They dragged his body from its grave,
His head stuck on a pole,
They threw his wife’s and daughter’s bones
Into a rubbish hole
To rot with those of two who’d lived
And fought for England’s sake,
And each one in his own brave way—
Great Pym, and Admiral Blake.)

From Charles to Charles, throughout the world
Old England’s name was high,
And that’s a thing no Royalist
Could ever yet deny.
Long shameful years have passed since then,
In spite of England’s boast—
But Englishmen were Englishmen,
While Cromwell carved the roast.

And, in my country’s hour of need—
For it shall surely come,
While run by fools who’ll never heed
The beating of the drum.
While baffled by the fools at home,
And threatened from the sea—
Lord! send a man like Oliver—
And let me live to see.

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I Hear The Voices Of Others In Me


I hear the voices of others in me
It does not mean I have a voice of my own
I feel their lines and their poems their melodies and their harmonies
I feel the beauty of what they say
Each one in his own exceptional way-
I hear the voices of others in me
And wait to hear my own voice
And stumbling fumble these lines and more lines and lines
And I do not know
And only hope
That I am me
And I am real
And I have a voice of my own.

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The art of an artist must be his own art. It is... always a continuous chain of little inventions, little technical discoveries of one's own, in one's relation to the tool, the material and the colors.

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We Do Not Outgrow Our Own Sadnesses


We do not outgrow our own Sadnesses
We remain lost in them.
No matter how far
We wander from home-

Life is not easy
And we wherever we are
Suffer the sadnesses
We have borne as ourselves
From the beginning.

How we get by
How we manage to get through the world
A mystery each answers in his own way-

Blessedness- or not.

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A Civic Holiday Trip

Lines on a civic holiday trip on the Grand Trunk,
to Toronto, August, 1882. Address to Mr. Hodge,
conductor of Caledonian games at Ingersoll.

From Ingersoll, on Canadian Thames,
We come to greet mine host of the St. James,
This being our town's civic holiday ;
Yet we remember twenty-fourth of May,
For then at our Caledonian games
He did loud proclaim the victors' names .
We came in part to contribute
To our town's mechanics' institute,
Who got up this grand excursion
Where each one has his own diversion.
Some did remain at Burlington Bay,
While we to Toronto did wend our way,
And came to see this presentation
To stalwart son of Scottish nation.

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Lessons of Life

If you have to win your maiden love

you won’t then face bitter things.
The caste feuds and communal tiff
make your being whole.

Thousands of men we meet.
Each one has his own tale.
Every tale has ups and downs
of our life so very precious.
If anyone leads a tragic life,
lessons many one can learn.
Obstacles come to boost your heart
Or else life will be dull.

If love is destined to scream hoarse,
the haunting melodies, the young make.
When sorrow-tinged hearts have wept long,
Nature would shed her tears, oh!
If God doesn’t come to untie the knot,
the conflict guides to the worst.
Pity the young ones fallen in love
as the mistakes are heaven made.

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Patrick White

Making Peace With My Father

You could be dead by now.
How would I know?
Last time I saw you
was fifty-five years ago.
My first day of school.
Your last with us.
You’re the little man now, Paddy,
you said
then got on a greyhound bus
in front of Tang’s Pagoda
as I watched the door close
on that fuselage without wings
as if the whale had just swallowed Jonah whole.
The last time I noticed we had the same eyes.
The end of your reign of terror.
As I remember you fifty-five years later
you were brutal, violent, cruel,
a con-man and a drunk.
You hurt people then laughed at their pain.
You were the lethal meltdown of a radioactive brain
that made the grass glow at night
from thousands of miles away
and poisoned the rain.
I went to jail with my mother to bail you out
more often than I was pushed into going to church.
And when you got out
you were always as angry as a killer bee
in the soggy autumn orchard of your hangover.
Life for you as it is for any coward
was one long complaint you took out on us.
My first seven years
I watched as many ambulances
take my shattered mother away for months
as many cop cars washing up on our doorstep
with all those messages in a bottle
that had your name on them
like a federal warrant for your arrest
as I recall the clinking horse-drawn milkwagons
with their coloured cardboard bottle caps
or the tinkling neighbourhood ice-cream trucks.
Remembering you now at this late date
is like fingering the fossils of a Tyrannosaurus Rex
and feeling the faint resonance
of your ferocity even yet
through my fingertips
like a warm-blooded mammal
in the menacing shadow of a reptilian law
whose last judgment was always a jugular in a jaw.
If you’re dead,
if you’re truly dead,
did you die alone?
Did anyone grieve?
Did you change over the years
and become a good man
as righteous as the stroke of midnight
and atone for anything
before you boarded the next bus for the abyss?
Was your last flashback of life
the sunami you drowned in
after your psychological fault lines
flintknapped an earthquake
that brought the whole planet down on us
everytime you barged through the door
back from the bar
and turned a home into an avalanche?
Did you remember your children?
Did you remember me?
Did you ever wonder
how I turned out without you?
Who knows?
Maybe I’m way too late for your funeral
and this wreath of blood and thorns I bring
to lay on your grave
like the bitter irony you fathered in me
is not a fitting obsequy for either of us
because maybe, possibly, improbably
as you aged like an acid
time defanged your thunder
like a white cottonmouth
and the moon took back its crescents
and the lightning began to make crutches of the trees
it used to split like cedar shakes
with double-bladed bolts of light
that scorched so much more
than they ever illuminated in the darkness they returned to.
As if the whole of the little earth I knew then,
my mother, me, my brother, my sisters
sported the wounds you gashed
on everyone’s heart and a skull
like chopping blocks
under your bloodied blunted war-ax.
For longer than autumn’s been keeping time now
with rosaries of geese in passage
like the secret names
of God on the run
for bouncing rubber cheques,
I have carried you around inside of me
like a chromosome in a coffin.
It’s a kind of genetic locket
I sometimes open
to remember you by
when I’m mythologizing my scars
like blackholes among the stars
or the empty eyesockets
on the wailing walls of the dice
you loaded like the prophetic skulls of a bad choice.
And I still don’t know if I’ve come
like an eviction notice
to this dismal place
to condemn you
or exorcise your ghost
I have despised you for so long within me
like the sloughed skin of a snakey oilslick,
the black blood of a haemorrhaging eclipse
that covers everything like an executioner’s hood,
the birds, the sun, the sea,
every tarnished cell of me
in a darkness that won’t wash off.
Or maybe I’ve just shown up again
like Empedocles on Aetna
to jump into the collapsed caldera of your grave
like the last flower.
Ambiguous homage with seven kinds of meaning
to a spent volcano
buried in itself
that once knew how to preserve the dead
in all the twisted shapes of prolonged agony
that has characterized the living ever since.
Every day of my life
I have wanted to give you back your name
like a white cross on a black plague door
that isn’t me anymore
and never was.
Or maybe I should
jump down into your grave and say
Hey, Dad, isn’t this sad for you and me
this is the way we take leave of each other for good
like chainsaws snarling through the heartwood of the family tree?
Isn’t it just so incomparably sad
that a son being honest as a deathbed
with his father as he dies
over and over again in his imagination
as I do now here beside you
should lean over and whisper into his father’s ear
with a heavy heart that regrets it was ever born to mean it
Hey, Dad, I want you to know
when it’s my time to go
and I get to the other side
of all that was
and can be abandoned
time will heal everything
you did and didn’t do
and all these severed bloodlines
reach their final watershed,
all the weak threads
of what was unbound
like rain in the river
fall into the flowing
and be made whole as strong rope again,
and the eye that offended be plucked out
and an old fist be opened up like the new palm
of a better afterlife than the one we had here,
and reunited families everywhere
break bread together in love and laughter
and every father be a strong rafter
and every mother be a lamp in a tent
and a cool night wind
as intimate and near
as stars in a desert,
and every son
say farewell to his father
as I do now here beside you
on this re-useable illusion of a death bed
where I am trying so hard to listen
to the voices in my heart
instead of the wise-guys in my head:
Father, farewell.
You gave me these empty eyes.
My mother filled them with compassion.
May peace marrow your troubled bones at last
and God soften the stone
upon which you lay your head.
What has passed has passed
like a storm out over open water.
You were my father at noon.
I was your son at midnight.
You withdrew like a shadow
that dreaded the light.
May God grant you a deeper insight
into these lives
we pass along to one another
like candles in the doorway of a dark night
and the courage to see
when they’re blown out
and death comes to sever even this little thread
of earthbound lucidity
that exists like blood between you and me
why even if these eyes of yours you gave me
were washed up like the survivors of a shipwreck
on the eyelids of the same shores
we started out from together,
asked whose son I might be
and who among all the generations
of the unborn and unperishing gathered there
was the road that fathered my journey,
I would answer
my life was a river with only one bank
that flowed from a sea of shadows on the moon.
I would embrace my mother in tears
if I saw her standing there
for all the long, hard, humiliating years
she always sat on the edge of the bed
the last thing at night
before we fell asleep under her eyes
and quietly lowered herself down
like a ladder into a snakepit
so we could climb out
without getting bit by the same viper
that had struck her like black lightning
in the heel in an orchard in spring.
About you I wouldn’t say anything.
I’d swallow my voice like a sword.
I wouldn’t sacrifice a word
on the altar of the silence
that waited like a god
to hear himself named.
I’d shake my head.
I wouldn’t look for you among the dead.

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The Banker’s Secret

THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast
The town has heard of for a year, at least;
The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze,
Damask and silver catch and spread the rays;
The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil
Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil;
The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines,
The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines;
With one admiring look the scene survey,
And turn a moment from the bright display.

Of all the joys of earthly pride or power,
What gives most life, worth living, in an hour?
When Victory settles on the doubtful fight
And the last foeman wheels in panting flight,
No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun;
Life's sovereign moment is a battle won.
But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice,
By the strong magic of the master's voice;
To ride the stormy tempest of debate
That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state.
Third in the list, the happy lover's prize
Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes.
If some would have it first instead of third,
So let it be,--I answer not a word.
The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half
Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh;
Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown,
The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down;
But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few,
Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true.

Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine,
How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine!
Nature, indulgent to our daily need,
Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed;
But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings
This choicest gift among her social kings
Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour
Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power?
He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,--
Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm,
Slides to his seat, half leading and half led,
Smiling but quiet till the grace is said,
Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees
Creep softly out the little arts that please;
Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye,
The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,--
Talk light and airy, such as well may pass
Between the rested fork and lifted glass;--
With play like this the earlier evening flies,
Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise.
His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs,
As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares.
That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,--
Fast on the road, but at the table slow.
Next him,--you see the author in his look,--
His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,--
Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,--
Holds back to fire among the heavy guns.
Oh, there's our poet seated at his side,
Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed.
Poets are prosy in their common talk,
As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk.
And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits,
By right divine, no doubt, among the wits,
Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks,
The man that often speaks, but never talks.
Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace
To every table where he shows his face?
He knows the manual of the silver fork,
Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,--
Remark that 'White-top' was considered fine,
But swear the 'Juno' is the better wine;--
Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules;
If they say No, the town has many fools.
Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold
The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold,
The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire;
Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare;
His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan
That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man.
Who's next? An artist in a satin tie
Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye.
And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,--
Looks like a spinster at a baby-show.
Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,--
And likes his place, between the gap and bore.
Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest
We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest;
And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties,
And heads above them which their owners prize.

Of all that cluster round the genial board,
Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord.
Some say they fancy, but they know not why,
A shade of trouble brooding in his eye,
Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,--
Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,--
Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,--
Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass!
But not forgetful of his feasting friends,
To each in turn some lively word he sends;
See how he throws his baited lines about,
And plays his men as anglers play their trout.
A question drops among the listening crew
And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo.
We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,--
Not the least hurry, take the river's course
Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo,
Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo,
Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can,
We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman!
The Congressman, once on his talking legs,
Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs;
Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff!
Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh.
A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done;
Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun.
A laugh is priming to the loaded soul;
The scattering shots become a steady roll,
Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line,
The light artillery of the talker's wine.
The kindling goblets flame with golden dews,
The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse,
And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright,
Pale as the moon and maddening as her light;
With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky
Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie,
So that the dreamy passion it imparts
Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts.
But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits
Its gleams of light in alternating fits.
The shower of talk that rattled down amain
Ends in small patterings like an April's rain;

With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun;
Bring the first fagot, proser number one
The voices halt; the game is at a stand;
Now for a solo from the master-hand
'T is but a story,--quite a simple thing,--
An aria touched upon a single string,
But every accent comes with such a grace
The stupid servants listen in their place,
Each with his waiter in his lifted hands,
Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands.
A query checks him: 'Is he quite exact?'
(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.)
The sparkling story leaves him to his fate,
Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date,
As a swift river, sown with many a star,
Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar.
The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt;
A neat quotation bowls the parson out;
Then, sliding gayly from his own display,
He laughs the learned dulness all away.
So, with the merry tale and jovial song,
The jocund evening whirls itself along,
Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore,
And the white neckcloths vanish through the door.

One savage word!--The menials know its tone,
And slink away; the master stands alone.
'Well played, by ---'; breathe not what were best unheard;
His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,--
'If wine tells truth,--and so have said the wise,--
It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies!
Bankrupt to-morrow,--millionnaire to-day,--
The farce is over,--now begins the play!'
The spring he touches lets a panel glide;
An iron closet harks beneath the slide,
Bright with such treasures as a search might bring
From the deep pockets of a truant king.
Two diamonds, eyeballs of a god of bronze,
Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze;
A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four;
Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore;
A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife,
Noiseless and useful if we come to strife.
Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind,
And not one tear for all he leaves behind
From all the love his better years have known
Fled like a felon,--ah! but not alone!
The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,--
Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair!
Still to his side the broken heart will cling,--
The bride of shame, the wife without the ring
Hark, the deep oath,--the wail of frenzied woe,--
Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below!

He kept his secret; but the seed of crime
Bursts of itself in God's appointed time.
The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide;
One never blamed nor wept,--she only died.
None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say
He sought a lonely refuge far away,
And there, with borrowed name and altered mien,
He died unheeded, as he lived unseen.
The moral market had the usual chills
Of Virtue suffering from protested bills;
The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true,
Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too;
Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,--
'Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused,--the Teacups knew his ways,--
He, like the rest, was not averse to praise.
Voices and hands united; every one
Joined in approval: 'Number Three, well done!'

'Now for the Exile's story; if my wits
Are not at fault, his curious record fits
Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard;
Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd
That this our island hermit well might be
That story's hero, fled from over sea.
Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain
The fertile powers of that inventive brain.
Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough
Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff
In the strange web of mystery that invests
The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests.'

'Lies! naught but lies!' so Number Seven began,--
No harm was known of that secluded man.
He lived alone,--who would n't if he might,
And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?
A foolish story,--still, I'll do my best,--
The house was real,--don't believe the rest.
How could a ruined dwelling last so long
Without its legends shaped in tale and song?
Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?
Perhaps--why not?--NAPOLEON! in disguise,--
So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop,
Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,--
Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place
Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.
Such was one story; others used to say,
'No,--not Napoleon,--it was Marshal Ney.'
'Shot?' Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead,
But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.
He wandered round, lived South for many a year,
At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.
Choose which you will of all the tales that pile
Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.
Who wrote this modest version I suppose
That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows;
Made up of various legends, it would seem,
The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.
Such tales as this, by simple souls received,
At first are stared at and at last believed;
From threads like this the grave historians try
To weave their webs, and never know they lie.
Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round
The lonely home an exiled stranger found.

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We All Need To Live In Peace With Each Other

We all need to live in peace with each other
For outside us beyond us
Are vast vast worlds –

We are alone here on our own small planet
And we do not know how far we can get
And what there is outside our world –

We need to be alright with ourselves
So that when we confront the terrors of the distance
We will not destroy ourselves-

We must live in peace with each other
We must try to do the best we can
In a universe of ultimate uncertainty-
Perhaps somewhere along the way
We will vanish
Perhaps God will save us
We don’t know-
But we need to live in peace with each other
Not destroy ourselves
So we can face in the best way possible
The uncertainty of the unknown distant future.

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With all the sympathy

A person is called saint if he has kindness with all the sympathy
He can claim then only as direct descendent of almighty
Or Messiah, messenger or for that respect an angel
At every inch you must look ordinary but with different angle

I have known or heard about many of such figures
They have worked for the humanity and reassured
About the human misery and risk involved for apathy
What work is to be taken up or followed to gain His sympathy?

Each work is evaluated and appreciated by God
Many might have lost favor as their soul stands sold
They are burden and living animal on earth
At each stage they live on but with the fear of death

To work under such difficult situation is Herculean task
No one may opt for it or readily go and ask
Some of the great souls are easily picked on earth
God has always created such situation without any dearth

Such a kind of saints have prevailed in present time
For the rescue of mankind with their known and committed crimes
Hardly anybody can undertake such enterprise
It is much to relief and to our surprise

It proves God's existence
We feel and experience His presence
He is omni present and in every individual
Only we fail to understand Him and take very casual

If some one works on charity or any kind of human service
That may be counted as noble cause and looked upon very nice
All kinds of help will be rendered and efforts lauded
His or her presence will be taken with high esteem and applauded

It is not done to gain international fame
It may involve great work and full of blames
Little slackness may invite lots of criticism
As it isli9nked with the work of humanism

Thousands of hands are raised in your well being
Prayers and congregations are held to praise and sing
Preaching is done so as to spread the kind and love message
The sick and ill fated souls are shown the way with passage

The services of poor may be remembered very long
It is not only the care and help but to stay among
Not showing mere finger for any work to be done
The far reaching impact will never be undone

Some of the names may be remembered by all
As they have responded with charity and humanitarian call
Anybody could do it without any assistance
But it has made some difference with their presence

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Best way to keep a secret is tell it, just like that – mixes in with all the other palaver – nobody’s gonna listen, believe you or even care: the Secret

told the lady behind the counter
at the deli that I’m crazy and she just laughed and said no! But it’s true I really am crazy
And she said you don't look crazy
And I said no I don't suppose I do
That's part of my problem though I look normalwhateverthatis but I’m not
I walk around in a world of normal people and every once in a while I have to poke someone and tell them I’m not in the same world as they are and then they don't think I’m crazy
but that I am crazy for saying so

And she leaned over at me finally and said
What is it you are crazy weeth? And I said

I’m bi-polar. You know, manic-depressive?

And her eyes glazed over like the hams and salami
You don't know what that is do you? I said
And she said
No I don't know. What is that? And I said

That's what I am, I’m manic-depressive
Andshesaid in hersweetest sleepy-eyed droopy-eyelid limpid voice
I’m sorry I’m very sorry you're … whatever it is you said...

I tell you what (she said) ! ! Get far away! Just get away from it all for a while! Take a vacation when's the last time you took a vacation?

Go drive somewhere in your car even if you don't know where you're going!
and I said i can't get away from myself I’m sorry

I have to take me with myself wherever I go he goes and I come
I go and he comes I wish I could...

Then I realized this was just too much about me and my words trailed off

What vacation did she want to/ need to take! ? What was crazy when crazy really came to her? What was it for her to speak her heart to a stranger?

What did all my words spun and flung so carelessly bite into I didn't know this lady

So I said well, yea, you know I’ll do that

And she smiled it meant a lot that’s what you have to give when you're
In yourself
Gave her the response she needed to hear
heart to heart
Appreciate it really- your idea- I’ll do it!
I’m gonna try and do that

And by the way
don't mind all my crazy talk
You know, I’m just a little crazy

And she said no! And I said yes! No! Yes! Ha haha

I am

And I could hear myself and how I must sound to her
Like some bothersome man who needs the attention - lonely most likely like men get when they think about it and probably - more than likely
They had too much liquor
The alcohol- and the way they talk
because they're drunk - they talk around women
And can’t see the barriers and can't see that they're seen sloppy drunk they say

Don't pay me any mind, I’m just crazy
And then they tap the sides of their head like it'll rattle
and they grin
that awkward, hanging grin
When their lips and tongue are thick their heads spinning and the room is turning around them

And he thinks I’m putting on a pretty good show
I’m drunk and I know it
Don’t show it too much

Want to be loose but not too loose and lose their respect and he thinks in the far back of what’s left functioning in that mind he's pickling

That because he can't see straight
that nobody else can either

But knowing they’re pretty drunk they stumble and sway towards the door because you don't score women when you're drunk
You just have some fun
And practice the lines you're too introverted to say sober you have some fun and kill another night

Stumbling and waving as they go thinking for the life of them
I’m crazy to be this drunk but I’m a crazy guy

Until they wake up the next morning and find out they're not crazy at all just sick

And it's the same-ol same-ol: job, wife or kids a pale sheet pulled over the world of lights and fancy

But I wake up the next day (woke up one day, that is) and find out
(found out)

No hang over just a spill-over
a continuation of what I thought had been a bad experience
and now it’s just my life
and life just kind of flip-flopped on me in the night

So I turned around walked away from the nice lady iknewjustasmidgenbetter in the deli
to tap the side of my head and grinned at her
a wide but fading grin
attempting to leer

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lenexa Baptist Church = Trust In The Lord With All Your Heart & Soul


We pray and pray when we should stop asking
And take the time to listen and say thank you.
Our motives of mind must stay righteous and clear
To overcome our transgressions and renew.

Think of young David as he faced Goliath
With nothing but a sling and five stones he chose.
He listened to God and ran forth to glory
Toppling the giant, for the vultures and crows.

When we fully surrender our trust to God
Our life will never remain the same
Our heart bows in obedient submission
And all that we are has divinity to blame.


God has the power to move Heaven and earth
If we just surrender and follow in His path.
By turning a deaf ear toward His commandments
We suffer punishment, desperation and wrath.

God never takes pleasure from the death of a sinner
Who has refused the splendor of His grace.
When we ignore Jesus as our Savior
Were lost to shame, despair and disgrace

Trust in the Lord to navigate your heart
And He will always be there to guide you.
Never question His power, love or deliverance
As you struggle to repent and renew.

Never be ashamed to get down on your knees
And pray for deliverance from sin.
As time closes doors, God opens others
And by the power of assurance we rise, again.


A wise man gives up what he can’t keep
To gain what he cannot lose.
All Through life we make our judgments
Praying for the right path to choose.

Believers feel God is a footstep away
With His love, forgiveness and power.
All we have to do is observe His word
And by divine intervention we flower.

Never be afraid to pray humbly to God
For His light to shine from your face.
The more we surrender and obey His will
The more we facilitate His Grace.

Life without faith, deliverance and love
Becomes a selfish person’s hell.
By severing our Lord without question
We stay happier, productive, and well.

The Lord is aware of all we commit
Our secrets, joys, evils and fears.
Loving us despite our repeated mistakes
And even more, when we cry out in tears.


God can make life glorious and rewarding
When we continuously stay willing to wait.
He’s conscious of all and helps plan our purpose
When we trust Him without hesitation and debate.

David could have killed King Saul twice
But he was told by God to be patient and wait.
After ten years he was officially crowned King
For God was the master of his fortune and fate.

There’s something about waiting we just can’t stand
Though when we walk without God we fall.
When we patiently wait and trust His word
We’re blessed by His forgiveness and call.

Waiting on God means we honor His will
As we purify our motives and inspiration.
When we heed His word we obtain His best
Trusting our future to divine creation.

When we refuse to submit we’re overwhelmed by sin,
Fear, remorse, mistrust, selfishness and wrath.
As Christians we wait no matter how long
For God to reveal our purpose, destination and path.

God always knows what is best for us
And we must march to His will and power.
When we follow His commands we become as one
As His deliverance enables us to flower.


You will always have peace no mater your circumstance
When you trust in the Lord with all your heart and soul.
Why stay miserable, unhappy and lost
When the joys of goodness should be your goal?

The Lord’s hand is not short, it can save anyone
Sin is what separates you from His grace.
When you die without Christ you’re dead forever
Lost in the darkness of shame, despair and disgrace.

Remember God always keeps every promise
And you should trust Him to change your fate.
When you suffer from troubles, heartbreak and pain
Stay focused on His word before it’s too late.

The key to everlasting peace is your relationship with God
And His splendor surpasses all worldly understanding.
You will never know peace if you refuse to submit
Rendering life too dreadful, outrageous and demanding.

To keep from being doomed and blown off course.
Christ is your anchor in life’s storm filled sea.
When you’re tested by circumstance, He will override
Freeing you from trepidation to be blessed, by Thee.

By God’s Poet Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web

To Read Or Listen To Tom Zart’s Poems Go To =

http: //
http: // f=38

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Prelude; The Wayside Inn

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,
Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust
Went rushing down the county road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,
Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.

But from the parlor of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear,
Like water rushing through a weir:
Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause,
And, in each intervening pause,
The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all
The splendor of its ruddy glow,
Filled the whole parlor large and low;
It gleamed on wainscot and on wall,
It touched with more than wonted grace
Fair Princess Mary's pictured face;
It bronzed the rafters overhead,
On the old spinet's ivory keys
It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame,
The hands, the hours, the maker's name,
And painted with a livelier red
The Landlord's coat-of-arms again;
And, flashing on the window-pane,
Emblazoned with its light and shade
The jovial rhymes, that still remain,
Writ near a century ago,
By the great Major Molineaux,
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.

Before the blazing fire of wood
Erect the rapt musician stood;
And ever and anon he bent
His head upon his instrument,
And seemed to listen, till he caught
Confessions of its secret thought,--
The joy, the triumph, the lament,
The exultation and the pain;
Then, by the magic of his art,
He soothed the throbbings of its heart,
And lulled it into peace again.

Around the fireside at their ease
There sat a group of friends, entranced
With the delicious melodies
Who from the far-off noisy town
Had to the wayside inn come down,
To rest beneath its old oak-trees.
The fire-light on their faces glanced,
Their shadows on the wainscot danced,
And, though of different lands and speech,
Each had his tale to tell, and each
Was anxious to be pleased and please.
And while the sweet musician plays,
Let me in outline sketch them all,
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze
With its uncertain touch portrays
Their shadowy semblance on the wall.

But first the Landlord will I trace;
Grave in his aspect and attire;
A man of ancient pedigree,
A Justice of the Peace was he,
Known in all Sudbury as 'The Squire.'
Proud was he of his name and race,
Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh,
And in the parlor, full in view,
His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed,
Upon the wall in colors blazed;
He beareth gules upon his shield,
A chevron argent in the field,
With three wolf's-heads, and for the crest
A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed
Upon a helmet barred; below
The scroll reads, 'By the name of Howe.'
And over this, no longer bright,
Though glimmering with a latent light,
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore
In the rebellious days of yore,
Down there at Concord in the fight.

A youth was there, of quiet ways,
A Student of old books and days,
To whom all tongues and lands were known,
And yet a lover of his own;
With many a social virtue graced,
And yet a friend of solitude;
A man of such a genial mood
The heart of all things he embraced,
And yet of such fastidious taste,
He never found the best too good.
Books were his passion and delight,
And in his upper room at home
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome,
In vellum bound, with gold bedight,
Great volumes garmented in white,
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
The chronicles of Charlemagne,
Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure,
Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur,
Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour,
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour,
Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.

A young Sicilian, too, was there;
In sight of Etna born and bred,
Some breath of its volcanic air
Was glowing in his heart and brain,
And, being rebellious to his liege,
After Palermo's fatal siege,
Across the western seas he fled,
In good King Bomba's happy reign.
His face was like a summer night,
All flooded with a dusky light;
His hands were small; his teeth shone white
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke;
His sinews supple and strong as oak;
Clean shaven was he as a priest,
Who at the mass on Sunday sings,
Save that upon his upper lip
His beard, a good palm's length least,
Level and pointed at the tip,
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings.
The poets read he o'er and o'er,
And most of all the Immortal Four
Of Italy; and next to those,
The story-telling bard of prose,
Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales
Of the Decameron, that make
Fiesole's green hills and vales
Remembered for Boccaccio's sake.
Much too of music was his thought;
The melodies and measures fraught
With sunshine and the open air,
Of vineyards and the singing sea
Of his beloved Sicily;
And much it pleased him to peruse
The songs of the Sicilian muse,--
Bucolic songs by Meli sung
In the familiar peasant tongue,
That made men say, 'Behold! once more
The pitying gods to earth restore
Theocritus of Syracuse!'

A Spanish Jew from Alicant
With aspect grand and grave was there;
Vender of silks and fabrics rare,
And attar of rose from the Levant.
Like an old Patriarch he appeared,
Abraham or Isaac, or at least
Some later Prophet or High-Priest;
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin,
And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin,
The tumbling cataract of his beard.
His garments breathed a spicy scent
Of cinnamon and sandal blent,
Like the soft aromatic gales
That meet the mariner, who sails
Through the Moluccas, and the seas
That wash the shores of Celebes.
All stories that recorded are
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart,
And it was rumored he could say
The Parables of Sandabar,
And all the Fables of Pilpay,
Or if not all, the greater part!
Well versed was he in Hebrew books,
Talmud and Targum, and the lore
Of Kabala; and evermore
There was a mystery in his looks;
His eyes seemed gazing far away,
As if in vision or in trance
He heard the solemn sackbut play,
And saw the Jewish maidens dance.

A Theologian, from the school
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there;
Skilful alike with tongue and pen,
He preached to all men everywhere
The Gospel of the Golden Rule,
The New Commandment given to men,
Thinking the deed, and not the creed,
Would help us in our utmost need.
With reverent feet the earth he trod,
Nor banished nature from his plan,
But studied still with deep research
To build the Universal Church,
Lofty as in the love of God,
And ample as the wants of man.

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse
Was tender, musical, and terse;
The inspiration, the delight,
The gleam, the glory, the swift flight,
Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem
The revelations of a dream,
All these were his; but with them came
No envy of another's fame;
He did not find his sleep less sweet,
For music in some neighboring street
Nor rustling hear in every breeze
The laurels of Miltiades.
Honor and blessings on his head
While living, good report when dead,
Who, not too eager for renown,
Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!

Last the Musician, as he stood
Illumined by that fire of wood;
Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe,
His figure tall and straight and lithe,
And every feature of his face
Revealing his Norwegian race;
A radiance, streaming from within,
Around his eyes and forehead beamed,
The Angel with the violin,
Painted by Raphael, he seemed.
He lived in that ideal world
Whose language is not speech, but song;
Around him evermore the throng
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled;
The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled
Its headlong waters from the height;
And mingled in the wild delight
The scream of sea-birds in their flight,
The rumor of the forest trees,
The plunge of the implacable seas,
The tumult of the wind at night,
Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,
Old ballads, and wild melodies
Through mist and darkness pouring forth,
Like Elivagar's river flowing
Out of the glaciers of the North.

The instrument on which he played
Was in Cremona's workshops made,
By a great master of the past,
Ere yet was lost the art divine;
Fashioned of maple and of pine,
That in Tyrolean forests vast
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast;
Exquisite was it in design,
Perfect in each minutest part,
A marvel of the lutist's art;
And in its hollow chamber, thus,
The maker from whose hands it came
Had written his unrivalled name,--
'Antonius Stradivarius.'

And when he played, the atmosphere
Was filled with magic, and the ear
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold,
Whose music had so weird a sound,
The hunted stag forgot to bound,
The leaping rivulet backward rolled,
The birds came down from bush and tree,
The dead came from beneath the sea,
The maiden to the harper's knee!

The music ceased; the applause was loud,
The pleased musician smiled and bowed;
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame,
The shadows on the wainscot stirred,
And from the harpsichord there came
A ghostly murmur of acclaim,
A sound like that sent down at night
By birds of passage in their flight,
From the remotest distance heard.

Then silence followed; then began
A clamor for the Landlord's tale,--
The story promised them of old,
They said, but always left untold;
And he, although a bashful man,
And all his courage seemed to fail,
Finding excuse of no avail,
Yielded; and thus the story ran.

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