I'm just trying to make a smudge on the collective unconscious.
quote by David Letterman
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The Undying One- Canto III
'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?
If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along
Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;
Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,
When louder perchance it used to roar--
Never shall sound of that wintry gale
Be aught to you but a voice of wail!
So o'er the careless heart and eye
The storms of the world go sweeping by;
But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.
Let one of our airy joys decay--
Let one of our blossoms fade away--
And all the griefs that others share
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!
'I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!
'I saw the inconstant lover come to take
Farewell of her he loved in better days,
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,
When misery and years had done their worst
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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I Was Not Born to Be Unconcious
I did not recognize this gift given,
Until I realized the efforts of those...
Making clear what I had,
Would be theirs to take away.
And I was not born to be unconscious.
Not for games on me to be played.
Some would make attempts,
To show the ease of it.
As if what is done,
Takes no dedication.
And I was not born to be unconscious.
Before I leap there is reflective hesitation.
I did not recognize this gift given,
Until I realized the efforts of those...
Making clear what I had,
Would be theirs to take away.
And I was not born to be unconscious.
Like some have chosen to be today!
I have always been guided,
To walk on my path with an insight...
I believed ignited all who existed.
Until I discovered a few deceptively twisted.
And I was not born to be unconscious.
To consciously bump into walls to me is sick!
Some would make attempts,
To show the ease of it.
As if what is done,
Takes no dedication.
And I was not born to be unconcious.
Not to deliberately inflict my own pain.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Soon Such Revelations Come!
Those 'good-ole-boys'
Have short circuited their network.
Not appearing to be shocked.
But they are.
And traumaticized...
To find they have been blocked out!
But by what?
Or who...
Would destroy their gluttony.
And rip them apart,
To expose their guts!
Trembling in their hearts.
With an unfamiliar humbling...
Felt inside.
And trying to deny.
Yet can not hide...
The fear shown in their eyes.
This surprises.
And stirs an emotional crisis,
Inside.
Soon such revelations come!
Soon,
Everyone 'unconscious' will be stunned!
Out witted by their own dimwit ways.
And relying upon the ignorance displayed...
By a people entertained,
To feed continued greed.
A greed now all finding...
From them being released and freed.
This surprises.
And stirs an emotional crisis,
Inside.
An unfamiliar humbling comes!
A 'deity' of unmeasurable consciousness,
Has arrived to stop them in the midst.
And they can not believe it!
They can not perceive,
This Supreme 'consciousness' they can not see...
Has selected to bring them to their knees in defeat!
Soon such revelations come!
Soon,
Everyone 'unconscious' will be stunned!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Man Is Foolish
The human mind works on three tiers
With upper, middle and lower levels
As the conscious mind, the subconscious
And the unconscious respectively.
While the conscious mind is voluntary,
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are autonomous and automatic.
The conscious mind is to one's awareness.
The subconscious colours the conscious mind
And the unconscious is independent.
Sexual overtone in the subconscious
Will impact the external behaviors.
The subconscious is the reservoir of
Lust, jealousy, fear, hatred and revenge.
Bitten by a dog, one is struck with fear,
Which lurks deep inside to fear any dog.
The subconscious and the unconscious
Are responsible for all the actions
Done impulsively or instinctively.
One is helpless to be not foolish.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The peter-bird
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.
Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.
One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!
Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!
"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"
So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!
[...] Read more
poem by Eugene Field
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Smudge of Blood
Here, this smudge of blood,
Of a tender boy of eleven,
Soaked thru the tarmac,
Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
An innocent young lad,
Fades-in my mind,
Your bag! Your bag!
Picking up a shopping bag,
Shouting and chasing the biker,
Who slings the bag into the crowd,
And cruises at a high speed.
Shouting repeatedly in vain,
Albeit he ran a bit far away from the crowd,
Your Bag! Your Bag!
Still shouting...
Oh! Sudden, the shopping bag explodes
Shredding in to pieces, the poor boy.
Scattering around his fresh flesh all over.
"My son! " "My son! "
The horror stricken mother gasps.
Dreadfully aloud and running to the spot,
Where her son has been ripped,
Plight of the mother is tearful.
Compassions and rancours surge up,
Cries and sighs of the shocked crowd, aghast.
Mother out of sense of mind,
Insanely hasten gathering,
Of her only beloved son's tender bod.
Warm blood dripping fleshes, broken skul,
Clasping to her bosom
"Oh! My Son, My Son. '
Weeping and wailing with a grief uncontrollable,
Caving into the pool of blood…sans...consciousness. ……………………………………………………
……………………………………………………
A ppalling brutality and the terror,
Of evil minds, will get over when?
Open your eyes, empathize,
NO reward of Heaven, for shedding the innocent blood.
NO reward of Heaven, for this distress of mothers.
What remains is just this smudge of blood…
poem by Nooruddeen Mathilakathveetil
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One Of Us
One of Us.
There is a smudge on my computer screen I try to clean it with spit,
but no. Perhaps it is finger mark left behind by those strange people
who sit in back of the computer repair shop? Their diet is cola and
chocolate, yet they are thin, bald and so weedy looking I have must
whisper to them or they will shrink away. They sulk too if I disagree
with their findings it will take weeks before I get my computer back.
When the owner shuts shop they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver. Maybe the smudge is a camera
eye, they sit in there and watch me. When I have drink tonight I’ll
pour it in my bedroom, then go into the bathroom, smoke a cigarette.
Buy a can of cola and a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front
of the screen. And they will say: “Look, he is one of us.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The French Maid
She is cleaning again
feather duster in hand
Uniform tuxedo
fanning flourish feminine
She wears fishnets black
lacing satin spic 'n span
Skirting sleek stilettos
with delicate depurate diadem
She dusts lust for fuchsian
florid fine and flourishin’
Disinfecting drains unclogging
impeccable spotless sanitary she
We clean the floors doors walls
with window crevices uncovering
Reach revealing mirror ceiling
pristine sheen for floor board squeaking
She has me knees and hand solution
wash white knuckle squirting
Sweat succumb from such scrubbing
recovers numb of our rage reaching
Spot scrub smudge fastidious sponging
mine meticulous love
Immaculate spectaculate
cleaning lady consummate cathartic
Rigorous grinding intent for finishing
swipe smudge smear clear her
Surface sheen pristine polish shining
glimmer glisten glittering gleam
We are Mister and Misses Clean!
Lover's sanitation fresh
supernatural sparkling breath
I wipe her back neck perfect precious
mine lips her hips' lips
throat heart stomach
Mon chambermaid cheri she
magnificent as such mess undress
Arriving mirth meticulous Frenching
made of our own making
randy resh 2007
poem by Randy Resh
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My poetic meditation
My poetic meditation
Friday,2 October 2009
02.10.09
Red deep red last night
vague yellow light ahead
easy walking more like floating
no wheelchair no scooter
no walking stick just freedom
Posted by James Hart at 04: 07 0 comments
Thursday,1 October 2009
01.10.09
Blue is the predominant
feature today
not blue like the sky
but deep blue
a rich blue
red wine blue
a blue glade
Posted by James Hart at 06: 50 0 comments
Wednesday,30 September 2009
Bright sunshine outside
contrasts with dark valley inside
Posted by James Hart at 07: 00 0 comments
Tuesday,29 September 2009
Glade dark today
dark dark dark
no light so no colour
sad sad sad
need to stare more intently
white smudge very faint
hard to know what is
my imagination
and what is real
well, all is real
in the dark poetic world
of metitation
Posted by James Hart at 03: 22 0 comments
Monday,28 September 2009
My poetic meditation blog
A glade on a hillside
[...] Read more
poem by James Hart
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The press should be not only a collective propagandist and a collective agitator, but also a collective organizer of the masses.
quote by Vladimir Lenin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Indictment Against Entire Nations
Collective Guilt Is Groundless.
Guilt is individual as is salvation.
Collective guilt cannot enforced be
laid upon innocence preadolescent.
Vengeance reparations cause wars?
No indictment exists
nor means rationally
for law creating crime
as collective nations
shame blame guilt.
Penalty culpability
regret responsibility
admissions of evils
For the Indictment
of an entire nation.
Least free-born blood
of race righteousness.
Condemned in error.
Cry out from ground
in accusation against us.
Evil must be cleansed
to source malignant.
Before humanity can
collectively throw off. Weight
cavitation chains walk free.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Name Value
What is a name?
What does it mean?
From where does it attain stamina?
From whence are its tactics formulated?
What does it signify when processing
an established aristocratic name-tag?
A name derives authentic revered value; both
individually and collectively; without exception;
sourced upon each birthed or adopted member;
within extended compressed collective; known as family.
Therefore a name stands spot-lighted; solitary in soliloquy;
resting upon inquisitional value; each optimum responsible ranked;
caring moralistic member; associate; places superimposed upon it.
It stands soluble in soprano; resting upon;
greatest and lowest achievements; an associated
individual; productively or carelessly insolvent produces.
It stands solvent upon sojourn soiree;
as sorrowful as actions regretted induce;
for collective crimes are ingredients sordid.
It stands upon all reputations in friendship enemy associations.
It stands upon all glorious or ignoble endeavours attempted.
It stands upon all achievements failures triumphs disasters.
It stands upon all morality integrity compassion or exploitation.
It stands upon all random rumoured or proven past actions.
A name posses no more; than sum totaled; money rolled;
steadfast patronage power; corporation willed; applied or directed.
Talisman talent we individually; or collectively; endow it with.
It stands or falls; upon aspirations; upon dreams; upon talented gut
feelings; upon all social mobility; arising from actions deliberated.
In truth a name; cannot mean more; than we make it.
It is ingested; as ingredients; in our ingressed identity.
It is harmonious or inharmonious interaction; innovative within; interconnected family fibre; comprising collective embodiment.
It is the synchronism synopsis; of simultaneous contemporary
events; within precession of historically arranged; preceding events.
A name is n extended; elementary identity; we walk within.
Irremovable clothing; we wear upon class judged; inquisition.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Stone Cross
Read weep moan marvel
at drover’s driven dross
while too few sincerely mourn
a far greater terrifying loss;
heartfelt chosen selected life
stone pledged; final solution cross.
Look with compassion upon
shadows bespeaking suffering
sea saved floatsam full stark
face affirming agonized affliction
unveiled herded branded inhumanity
industrialized mechanical process
is more demonically tumultuous
than heaven’s hosts could abide stand
view with nerve frayed stringent
wrenching gutted angelic perfect heart
final fatal fallen orb unleashed depravity
inflicted with whipped screaming insensitivity
without window-dressing a barbaric cruelty
within frosted protective polemics’ mad mind.
Two naked tears screaming come
one for each soulless sightless
eye in streams fevered form
flow from lifeless victim eyes
down hollow gaunt sunken cheeks
years cannot infliction fathom
depths disparaging indentured
genocidal indulgence ghost look
such eyes dread soul expires dies.
Candle snuffed no longer brightly burns
within sensation saturation sodden injured.
Human-less spirit fragmented untouchable
body flexes feeling of a trauma chronic kind.
In another age time another pyre place agonized
beyond measure-able distance far away stretched
crimes committed surpass comprehension civilized
forgiveness murdered discarded remains unquestioned
mounds of broken coke carbon fuel cooked oven bones
pre-cooked unto oblivion new dust cremated termite mounds
mounds lie piled still an aging testament to craven third Reich.
Lining bone manured rows
where giant cabbages
once in time did grow.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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City Soul
I am the walking city
The breathing collective
The art of day and night
The ideals riding to work
Labyrinth filling minds
Streams of consciousness
Grief groups and AA clubs
Stores and sales
Crafts and precision
Schools and design
Immigrants and dialects
Rap, blues, jazz, classical
Colloquiums, technology
Invention, pollution
Tea and don’t forget coffee
The city needs artist
Beautiful mad city
Cavalier yellow gold morning
Paint your canvas with hope
Let your soul show feeling
Some ideals can only be expressed
Constituted by emotion
Color the mood of spirit
Conception the child of perception
Parabolic myth shared in symbols
Uniqueness in the related social sea
Creative biochemistry converts feelings
Talent coming from genetic mystery
Talent as spiritual as angels
Music as strange as exotic fruit
Poetry like wine from the mind
Architecture where monuments breathe
Old and new convergence
Hubs quell like tides
Styles in the collective unconscious
Museums with purple pageantry
Limestone and marble
Exchange and variety
Culinary cuisine and ethnic diversity
Parks and horticulture
History in sculpture
Bridges like Roman aqueducts
City lights along the river
Live music and ringing bells
Cathedrals and spirals
We live in ghettos
We live in mansions
[...] Read more
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Push
(m - kusch l - deris, weikath, kusch)
Theyre spending millions for your thrill
Collective desperate overkill
Wrapped up in harmless words than grin
Forbidden games youll never win
The more you see, the more you know
Intended media mind control
Shut down and see how beautiful life can be
This is the prime if your lifetime
You see through eyes of someone else
More than a half of your lifetime
Is just a tale in a storybook
Push, enforce you independence
Push your real intention
Face your unconscious addiction
Push your private fiction
Push
Itt getting sticker frame by frame
Youre always staring at the same
What is a lie, what is the truth?
Incredible disgusting news
The world is rought, the end is near
Just calculation with your fear without a shame nor least respect
The operators stand erect
This is the prime of your lifetime
You see through eyes of someone else
More than a half of your lifetime
Is just a tale in a storybook
Push, enforce you independence
Push your real intention
Face your unconscious addiction
Push your private fiction
Push
Solo 1: roland
Solo 2: michael
Solo 3: roland
song performed by Helloween
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Time only has so much Time
Pearl fire of aqua language
Poets purge the unconscious forms
Wings of ethereal justice and beauty
She has mercy in her piercing eyes
Stone lions chase ravens
The claws of silence
Forever past in granite
There in the wind hides legacy
Voices of the deep sapphire sea
Gardens where forgiveness glides free
Trench warfare is over
Below the equinox
By palm trees of ice
Egyptian mummies walk in the valley
She hands me a vision
A vision lacking the entire world
Freedom is a dream found in libraries
Mortal fear wrestles with morning
All the gates are locked
By the fountain a golden flower grows
Dialogue with Dante’s Inferno
Winds of Shelley’s thorns
Poseidon sails in a Roman slave ship
Spartacus meditates vengeance
Myth becomes the shields of armies
Pirates steal Caesars bold inscription
Opium ships bring their cargo west
Denizens read Verlaine and Virginia Woolf
A more perfect union visions of Voltaire
Autonomous Atlas lifts the weight of the world
Through symbols and dreams the fog lifts
Shaman prophets die early deaths
Let the clowns swim with the mermaids
Every one needs dreams that dance
Escape to the islands and look over the precipice
Along the mountain passes feel the free air
Sleep under the moon with your wise lover
Lord Byron’s black steeds ramble the night
Walk through forests of emerald romance
Let your dreams escape from self torment
Dharma mountains rise in spires
Genuflect in neurotic salvation
Holy water with fluoride
The womb of peace
Adults suck their thumbs
[...] Read more
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Voiceless
Crisp and tight, a parallel voice
of black stars talks to sky, protesting
the presence of ultimate outsider, when
everybody was a partner of collective
guilt in nightscape.
What was the center of fight in elite
members? The unhindered ego or claim
of bland crumbs of authority? The innocents
so many, on streets, surrounding a red
smudge, liberty, watching her personification, who
sleeps here!
Whom it burns? As the blood spurts
from the chest of a white stone.
• On the death of Neda Agha Soltan in Tehran on 20st June 09
poem by Satish Verma
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Amours de Voyage, Canto III
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.--
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,--
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to Florence.
Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.--We don't know,
You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;
But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,--
He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.
Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so
Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,--
Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:
I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.
Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly
Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my
Pen will not write any more;--let us say nothing further about it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;
So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression
Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.
Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?
Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas
That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;
I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.--
When does he make advances?--He thinks that women should woo him;
Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.
She that should love him must look for small love in return,--like the ivy
On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, and
E'en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
II. Claude to Eustace,--from Rome
[...] Read more
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Stanzas To the Memory Of George III
'Among many nations was there no King like him.' –Nehemiah, xiii, 26.
'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' – 2 Samuel, iii, 38.
ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,
Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.
Vain voice of Reason, hush!–they yet must flow,
The unrestrained, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,
Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day,
We feel, we know, 'tis thus–yet nature will have way.
What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign'd,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd;
Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung
The undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nature from its deep decay, and sprung
Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true;
While England hung her trophies on the stem,
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of THEM.
Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom!
Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
The realm's high soul to loftiest energies!
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw
The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought
In every bosom, powerful to renew
Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast, {1}
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepening fast.
Then from the unslumbering influence of his worth,
Strength, as of inspiration, fill'd the land;
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth,
[...] Read more
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third
'Among many nations was there no King like him.' -Nehemiah, xiii, 26.
'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' - 2 Samuel, iii, 38.
ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,
Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.
Vain voice of Reason, hush!-they yet must flow,
The unrestrained, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,
Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day,
We feel, we know, 'tis thus-yet nature will have way.
What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign'd,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd;
Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung
The undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nature from its deep decay, and sprung
Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true;
While England hung her trophies on the stem,
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of THEM.
Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom!
Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
The realm's high soul to loftiest energies!
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw
The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought
In every bosom, powerful to renew
Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast, {1}
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepening fast.
Then from the unslumbering influence of his worth,
Strength, as of inspiration, fill'd the land;
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth,
Kindled by him-who saw it not expand!
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Added by Poetry Lover
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