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Louis Armstrong

The memory of things gone is important to a jazz musician.

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And The Memory Remains

The dreams follow down your precious treasures,
Sometimes the nightmares,
The others just the memories of past,
All you cherish always don't last,
The grief, the sorrow, the fondest of all,
Memories do gush up with the first rainfall,
The first love, the first kiss,
Ohhh man how lucky were you when you were in bliss,
Wake up with good morning kiss,
Lie asleep with the sweetest goodnight kiss,
Suddenly, everything goes away with the wind,
Turbulent enough to keep open wounds,
Cry baby of life is all that you become,
Sorrowful days keeping nothing but painful blossoms,
Anything any day for a person you kept,
Nothing but thorns is what you get,
We rush out, we try but nothing works good,
Things you do,
You feel her whisper,
She voices in your ether no matter where you go.

But not this time,
Everything is gone,
Let it go,
Ash to ash,
Dust to dust,
Fade it to Black,
But still in dreams and in unconscious truths,
The Memory Remains...

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In The Smallest Of Things

when chapters become books,
and passion becomes love...
written in hours and minutes,
in days and weeks...
and weeks become months,
and months become years...
footsteps woven into one.
days of work for nights of small things...
food, fire, children, good books
and good wine...
quiet words spoken, falling like leaves,
the candle lit by touching
in the darkest hours...
do we forget, do we lose memory,
do thoughts become echoes.
bricks laid by sweat and toil
are lost in the wall...
need becomes distance,
and curtains fall.....
you stare at the body,
as if some stranger...
and a lifetime given
like tiny shards of light,
nails covered with rust,
the spider's web empty.

only the trees know,
mountains, and lost caves.
raindrops falling,
and moonlight never named.
the dog barking in the night,
you think for no reason...
ah! but love testifies,
in the smallest of things!

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The Simplest Of Things...

there is a rare beauty
in the simplest of things...
the door knob tarnished,
the book with the worn cover.
the hallelujah shout of the snail,
rain water standing in an old tire.
the lampshade covered with dust,
the iron sitting unattended.
the child's toy left on the floor,
the hand that always somehow fits.
the old woman's heavy breathing,
the coffee cup stained half empty.
the cry of young lovers from a distant window.
the dog's low growl at something unseen.
the tattered remnants of the robin's nest,
the broken eggshell clinging to grass.
the old hymn sung by the man working his garden...
the swing of the axe, the stacking of wood.
the spider clinging to the outhouse wall,
potatoes laid out in the cellar for winter.
the grave solitary three days after the funeral.
the cat cradled on the step while it rains.
the laughter of a love long in journey.
the cup of coffee shared with the transient stranger.
the prayer of the child, and the room gone dark....
words spoken from the heart with hands and feet.

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Controlled By the Physicality of Things

Reprisals?
From them?
Forget it.

Most of them are illiterate.
The others are illegitimate.
Comprising an atmosphere of dysfunction!
And the people are controlled,
By the physicality of things.

I know you've gone out of your way,
To ignite 'some' response to your efforts.
Your passion is to be admired.
I suggest you not try to comprehend.
They consider any offense done to them,
As a compliment of attention that's given.

Why are you laughing?
What I say to you is not a joke!

You will be the one targeted to get upset.
The one provoked.
Trust me when I say this...
Don't show it!
That really sets them off.
They then will believe,
You think you are better than they are!

Why are you laughing?
Keep that humor.
You are going to need it!

If I were you,
I'd do more observing.

The others whose footsteps you follow,
Attempted the same thing.
Now they are addicted to prescribed medications.

A few have been spotted talking to themselves.
Some of them have been seen in full conversations.
While answering telephones they don't have,
In conducted conference calls.

Why are you laughing?
They are the ones who run this place.

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The Memory

Again, the pieces of my memory,
Have reunited to create this untold story,
Reflective beams of brilliant glory,
Paint the words that bloom from the mists of allegory.

The sunlight dances on the eve of January,
The mystical shafts as slivers of Winter,
Fade into the fields of the soothing whisper,
Above the starry snow strewn sanctuary.

The night is light, the hearts are merry,
The soft-spoken coos of moonlight tarry,
Beyond the adoring gaze of auroras fairy,
The souls embrace the depths of their aerie.

The lustrous delight of the warmth of the end,
Exhale sweet perfumes of the blissful melody,
Joy dances among the hearts of the visitor and friend,
As all are united together in the purpose and journey.

A world to come, another to cease,
Faith mingles in the Time of one history,
Lost in a word, the ignorant peace,
In pieces above, the divine mingles in Beauty,
The life of the moment, the breath of release,
All is one, in the night, in the path of eternity.

Remember the night,
Bask in the innocence and serenity,
The decision was right,
Under the haze of Winter's finality,
Your gaze was in sight,
We drank in the last, the last of the story,
I was married your knight,
Do not forget the joy of eternity,
For our love was our might,
I never lost the pieces of memory,
On the eve of the final night,
That drew you towards me,
We were promised the light,
In the arms of our journey,
Our purpose fulfilled, we awaited destiny,
Unbound into flight,
We flew off through infinity.

The memory sealed,
In the whisper of Winter,
The moonlight descended,
And hope ever did linger,
When we were befriended,
By the angelic figure,
The one that you are,
That I am,
That brought us together,
To rest in the Beauty,
Of our created slumber,
For all else did fall,
On Winter's eve of January,
All cast out forever,
In the nihilistic reality,
Forever lost, Forever gone,
But for us, my love;

Who live in the Memory.

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The City at the End of Things

Beside the pounding cataracts
Of midnight streams unknown to us
'Tis builded in the leafless tracts
And valleys huge of Tartarus.
Lurid and lofty and vast it seems;
It hath no rounded name that rings,
But I have heard it called in dreams
The City of the End of Things.
Its roofs and iron towers have grown
None knoweth how high within the night,
But in its murky streets far down
A flaming terrible and bright
Shakes all the stalking shadows there,
Across the walls, across the floors,
And shifts upon the upper air
From out a thousand furnace doors;
And all the while an awful sound
Keeps roaring on continually,
And crashes in the ceaseless round
Of a gigantic harmony.
Through its grim depths re-echoing
And all its weary height of walls,
With measured roar and iron ring,
The inhuman music lifts and falls.
Where no thing rests and no man is,
And only fire and night hold sway;
The beat, the thunder and the hiss
Cease not, and change not, night nor day.
And moving at unheard commands,
The abysses and vast fires between,
Flit figures that with clanking hands
Obey a hideous routine;
They are not flesh, they are not bone,
They see not with the human eye,
And from their iron lips is blown
A dreadful and monotonous cry;
And whoso of our mortal race
Should find that city unaware,
Lean Death would smite him face to face,
And blanch him with its venomed air:
Or caught by the terrific spell,
Each thread of memory snapt and cut,
His soul would shrivel and its shell
Go rattling like an empty nut.

It was not always so, but once,
In days that no man thinks upon,
Fair voices echoed from its stones,
The light above it leaped and shone:
Once there were multitudes of men,
That built that city in their pride,
Until its might was made, and then
They withered age by age and died.
But now of that prodigious race,
Three only in an iron tower,
Set like carved idols face to face,
Remain the masters of its power;
And at the city gate a fourth,
Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,
Sits looking toward the lightless north,
Beyond the reach of memories;
Fast rooted to the lurid floor,
A bulk that never moves a jot,
In his pale body dwells no more,
Or mind or soul,—an idiot!
But sometime in the end those three
Shall perish and their hands be still,
And with the master's touch shall flee
Their incommunicable skill.
A stillness absolute as death
Along the slacking wheels shall lie,
And, flagging at a single breath,
The fires shall moulder out and die.
The roar shall vanish at its height,
And over that tremendous town
The silence of eternal night
Shall gather close and settle down.
All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,
Shall be abandoned utterly,
And into rust and dust shall fall
From century to century;
Nor ever living thing shall grow,
Nor trunk of tree, nor blade of grass;
No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,
Nor sound of any foot shall pass:
Alone of its accursèd state,
One thing the hand of Time shall spare,
For the grim Idiot at the gate
Is deathless and eternal there.

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The Remembering: High The Memory

As the silence of seasons on
We relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light the soul shall sing
Of the velvet sailors course on
Of the velvet sailors course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail
Oer days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer
Into a time that we've all seen on
Into a time that we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream, dream as one
And I do think very well that the son might take you silently
They move fast, they tell me
There's someone, rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summer so long
We danced as evening sang their song
We wander out the day so long
And I do feel very well that the evenings take you silently
They move round, sunlight
Seeing ground
Whispers of clay, alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light
To a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
Schoolgates remind us of our class
Chase all confusion away with us
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returnig ways
As certain as we walk today
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Days pass as seconds turn the key
The strength of the moment lies with you
Don the cap and close your eyes
Imagine all the glorious challenge
Iron metal cast to others
Distant drums
Force the bit betwenn the mouth of freedom
Didn't we learn to fly
Remember to sail the skies
Distant suns
Will we reach
Winds allow
Other skylines
Other skylines to hold you
Relayer, all the dying cried before you
Relayer, we've rejoiced in all their meaning
Relayer, we advance, we retrace our stories
Like a dreamer all our lives
Are only lost begotten changes
We relive in seagull's pages
Outward ways
Things are all in colours
And the size of others shall send you forward
Arranged to sail you toward
A peace of mind
Will we reach
Winds allow
Other skylines
Other skylines to hold you
Relayer, all the passion spent on one cross
Relayer, sail the futile wars they suffer
Relayer, we advance, we retrace our story
Fail safe now
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returning ways
As certain as we walk today
Press over moments leaving you
Out in the city runnig free
Days pass as seconds turn the key
The strength of the moment lies with you
Out tender outward lights of you
Shine over mountains make the view
The strength of you seeing lies with you
Ours entrance we surely carry on
And change the passing as the sun
We don't even need to try, we are one
And I do think very well as the truth unfolds you silently
They move time, rainbows
Sunlight
Alternate tune, alternate tune
Rainbows, soft light
Alternate view
Sunlight tell me
Someone
Alternate view
Alternate view
Surely, surely

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The Remembering: High The Memory

As the silence of seasons on
We relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light the soul shall sing
Of the velvet sailors course on
Of the velvet sailors course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail
Oer days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer
Into a time that we've all seen on
Into a time that we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream, dream as one
And I do think very well that the son might take you silently
They move fast, they tell me
There's someone, rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summer so long
We danced as evening sang their song
We wander out the day so long
And I do feel very well that the evenings take you silently
They move round, sunlight
Seeing ground
Whispers of clay, alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light
To a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
Schoolgates remind us of our class
Chase all confusion away with us
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returnig ways
As certain as we walk today
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Days pass as seconds turn the key
The strength of the moment lies with you
Don the cap and close your eyes
Imagine all the glorious challenge
Iron metal cast to others
Distant drums
Force the bit betwenn the mouth of freedom
Didn't we learn to fly
Remember to sail the skies
Distant suns
Will we reach
Winds allow
Other skylines
Other skylines to hold you
Relayer, all the dying cried before you
Relayer, we've rejoiced in all their meaning
Relayer, we advance, we retrace our stories
Like a dreamer all our lives
Are only lost begotten changes
We relive in seagull's pages
Outward ways
Things are all in colours
And the size of others shall send you forward
Arranged to sail you toward
A peace of mind
Will we reach
Winds allow
Other skylines
Other skylines to hold you
Relayer, all the passion spent on one cross
Relayer, sail the futile wars they suffer
Relayer, we advance, we retrace our story
Fail safe now
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returning ways
As certain as we walk today
Press over moments leaving you
Out in the city runnig free
Days pass as seconds turn the key
The strength of the moment lies with you
Out tender outward lights of you
Shine over mountains make the view
The strength of you seeing lies with you
Ours entrance we surely carry on
And change the passing as the sun
We don't even need to try, we are one
And I do think very well as the truth unfolds you silently
They move time, rainbows
Sunlight
Alternate tune, alternate tune
Rainbows, soft light
Alternate view
Sunlight tell me
Someone
Alternate view
Alternate view
Surely, surely

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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,
Kindled by him–who saw it not expand!
Such was the will of heaven–the gifted seer,
Who with his God had communed, face to face
And from the house of bondage, and of fear,
In faith victorious, led the chosen race;
He through the desert and the waste their guide,
Saw dimly from afar, the promised land–and died.

O full of days and virtues! on thy head
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead,
Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have forgot;
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears,
Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from the Eternal's hand.

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to thee the splendour of its beams?
The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's pride!
Nations leap'd up to joy–as streams that burst,
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed,
Roll in exulting melody again;
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts–but thine.

Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil
That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains throng'd with palms to hail
The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
Met to rejoice–rich pageants glitter'd by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reach'd not thee–amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.

Yet there was mercy still–if joy no more
Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er
The silent limits of its solitude !
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high;
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke
On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom,
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past,
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,
Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustain'd inspired, by strong affection's power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore–
If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrill'd
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still'd.

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime,
Youth, with its glory, in its fullness, age,
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers,
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile,
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,
The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrlor, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.

And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once-familiar sound,
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear;
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known
Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o'er the future's course:
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;
And, closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to 'despair and die!'
No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace.

They might be with thee still–the loved, the tried,
The fair, the lost–they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill;
Long after earth received them, and the note
Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd,
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float
Those forms, from us withdrawn–to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal'd.

Came they with tidings from the worlds above,
Those viewless regions where the weary rest?
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love,
Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?
Or shone their visionary presence bright
With human beauty?–did their smiles renew
Those days of sacred and serene delight,
When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er forsakes.

These may be fantasies–and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral,
Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead.

But if the ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd,
The might, the majesty, the proud array
Of England's march o'er many a noble field,
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.

Away, presumptuous. thought!–departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays
E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze
On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat
And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.

And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void
Within our hearts–there veil'd thine image dwelt,
But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd,
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose,
And many a head, with years and sorrows grey,
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:–things revered,
The ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd
His lonely pyramid of dread renown.
But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent
Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,
And swept each holy barrier from their course,
Firm and unmoved amidst that lava-flood,
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.

Be they eternal! –Be thy children found
Still to their country's altars true like thee!
And, while 'the name of Briton' is a sound
Of rallying music to the brave and free,
With the high feelings, at the word which swell,
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame,
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well,
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.

All else shall pass away–the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their tombs depart;
But number not with perishable things
The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heirlooms from race to race!–and oh! in days,
When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn, 'as household words', thy praise,
Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest!
And many a name of that imperial line,
Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with thine!

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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!
Such was the will of heaven-the gifted seer,
Who with his God had communed, face to face
And from the house of bondage, and of fear,
In faith victorious, led the chosen race;
He through the desert and the waste their guide,
Saw dimly from afar, the promised land-and died.

O full of days and virtues! on thy head
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead,
Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have forgot;
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears,
Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from the Eternal's hand.

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to thee the splendour of its beams?
The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's pride!
Nations leap'd up to joy-as streams that burst,
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed,
Roll in exulting melody again;
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts-but thine.

Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil
That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains throng'd with palms to hail
The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
Met to rejoice-rich pageants glitter'd by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reach'd not thee-amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.

Yet there was mercy still-if joy no more
Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er
The silent limits of its solitude !
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high;
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke
On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom,
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past,
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,
Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustain'd inspired, by strong affection's power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore-
If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrill'd
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still'd.

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime,
Youth, with its glory, in its fullness, age,
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers,
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile,
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,
The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrlor, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.

And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once-familiar sound,
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear;
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known
Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o'er the future's course:
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;
And, closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to 'despair and die!'
No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace.

They might be with thee still-the loved, the tried,
The fair, the lost-they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill;
Long after earth received them, and the note
Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd,
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float
Those forms, from us withdrawn-to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal'd.

Came they with tidings from the worlds above,
Those viewless regions where the weary rest?
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love,
Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?
Or shone their visionary presence bright
With human beauty?-did their smiles renew
Those days of sacred and serene delight,
When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er forsakes.

These may be fantasies-and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral,
Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead.

But if the ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd,
The might, the majesty, the proud array
Of England's march o'er many a noble field,
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.

Away, presumptuous. thought!-departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays
E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze
On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat
And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.

And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void
Within our hearts-there veil'd thine image dwelt,
But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd,
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose,
And many a head, with years and sorrows grey,
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:-things revered,
The ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd
His lonely pyramid of dread renown.
But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent
Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,
And swept each holy barrier from their course,
Firm and unmoved amidst that lava-flood,
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.

Be they eternal! -Be thy children found
Still to their country's altars true like thee!
And, while 'the name of Briton' is a sound
Of rallying music to the brave and free,
With the high feelings, at the word which swell,
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame,
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well,
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.

All else shall pass away-the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their tombs depart;
But number not with perishable things
The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heirlooms from race to race!-and oh! in days,
When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn, 'as household words', thy praise,
Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest!
And many a name of that imperial line,
Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with thine!

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To The Memory Of The Right Honourable Lord Talbot, Late Chancellor Of Great Britain. Addressed To His Son.

While with the public, you, my Lord, lament
A friend and father lost; permit the muse,
The muse assigned of old a double theme,
To praise the dead worth and humble living pride,
Whose generous task begins where interest ends;
Permit her on a Talbot's tomb to lay
This cordial verse sincere, by truth inspired,
Which means not to bestow but borrow fame.
Yes, she may sing his matchless virtues now -
Unhappy that she may. - But where begin?
How from the diamond single out each ray,
Where all, though trembling with ten thousand hues,
Effuse one dazzling undivided light?
Let the low-minded of these narrow days
No more presume to deem the lofty tale
Of ancient times, in pity to their own,
Romance. In Talbot we united saw
The piercing eye, the quick enlightened soul,
The graceful ease, the flowing tongue of Greece,
Joined to the virtues and the force of Rome.
Eternal wisdom, that all-quickening sun,
Whence every life, in just proportion, draws
Directing light and actuating flame,
Ne'er with a larger portion of its beams
Awakened mortal clay. Hence steady, calm,
Diffusive, deep, and clear, his reason saw,
With instantaneous view, the truth of things;
Chief what to human life and human bliss
Pertains, that noblest science, fit for man:
And hence, responsive to his knowledge, glowed
His ardent virtue. Ignorance and vice,
In consort foul, agree; each heightening each;
While virtue draws from knowledge brighter fire.
What grand, what comely, or what tender sense,
What talent, or what virtue was not his;
What that can render man or great, or good,
Give useful worth, or amiable grace?
Nor could he brook in studious shade to lie,
In soft retirement, indolently pleased
With selfish peace. The syren of the wise,
(Who steals the Aonian song, and, in the shape
Of Virtue, woos them from a worthless world)
Though deep he felt her charms, could never melt
His strenuous spirit, recollected, calm,
As silent night, yet active as the day.
The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,
To check their combination. Shall low views
Of sneaking interest or luxurious vice,
The villain's passions, quicken more to toil,
And dart a livelier vigour through the soul,
Than those that, mingled with our truest good,
With present honour and immortal fame,
Involve the good of all? An empty form
Is the weak Virtue, that amid the shade
Lamenting lies, with future schemes amused,
While Wickedness and Folly, kindred powers,
Confound the world. A Talbot's, different far,
To lose in deathlike sloth one pulse of life,
That might be saved; disdained for coward ease,
And her insipid pleasures, to resign
The prize of glory, the keen sweets of toil,
And those high joys that teach the truly great
To live for others, and for others die.
Early, behold! he breaks benign on life.
Not breathing more beneficence, the Spring
Leads in her swelling train the gentle airs;
While gay, behind her, smiles the kindling waste
Of ruffian storms and Winter's lawless rage.
In him Astrea, to this dim abode
Of ever wandering men, returned again:
To bless them his delight, to bring them back
From thorny error, from unjoyous wrong,
Into the paths of kind primeval faith,
Of happiness and justice. All his parts,
His virtues all, collected, sought the good
Of humankind. For that he, fervent, felt
The throb of patriots, when they model states;
Anxious for that, nor needful sleep could hold
His still-awakened soul; nor friends had charms
To steal, with pleasing guile, one useful hour;
Toil knew no languor, no attraction joy.
Thus with unwearied steps, by Virtue led,
He gained the summit of that sacred hill,
Where, raised above black Envy's darkening clouds,
Her spotless temple lifts its radiant front.
Be named, victorious ravagers, no more!
Vanish, ye human comets! shrink your blaze!
Ye that your glory to your terrors owe,
As, o'er the gazing desolated earth,
You scatter famine, pestilence, and war;
Vanish! before this vernal sun of fame;
Effulgent sweetness! beaming life and joy.
How the heart listened while he, pleading, spoke!
While on the enlightened mind, with winning art,
His gentle reason so persuasive stole,
That the charmed hearer thought it was his own.
Ah! when, ye studious of the laws, again
Shall such enchanting lessons bless your ear?
When shall again the darkest truths, perplexed,
Be set in ample day? when shall the harsh
And arduous open into smiling ease?
The solid mix with elegant delight?
His was the talent, with the purest light
At once to pour conviction on the soul,
And warm with lawful flame the impassioned heart.
That dangerous gift with him was safely lodged
By heaven - He, sacred to his country's cause,
To trampled want and worth, to suffering right,
To the lone widow's and her orphan's woes,
Reserved the mighty charm. With equal brow,
Despising then the smiles or frowns of power,
He all that noblest eloquence effused,
Which generous passion, taught by reason, breathes:
Then spoke the man; and, over barren art,
Prevailed abundant nature. Freedom then
His client was, humanity and truth.
Placed on the seat of justice, there he reigned,
In a superior sphere of cloudless day,
A pure intelligence. No tumult there,
No dark emotion, no intemperate heat,
No passion e'er disturbed the clear serene
That round him spread. A zeal for right alone,
The love of justice, like the steady sun,
Its equal ardour lent; and sometimes, raised
Against the sons of violence, of pride,
And bold deceit, his indignation gleamed,
Yet still by sober dignity restrained.
As intuition quick, he snatched the truth,
Yet with progressive patience, step by step,
Self-diffident, or to the slower kind,
He through the maze of falsehood traced it on,
Till, at the last, evolved, it full appeared,
And e'en the loser owned the just decree.
But when, in senates, he, to freedom firm,
Enlightened freedom, planned salubrious laws,
His various learning, his wide knowledge, then,
His insight deep into Britannia's weal,
Spontaneous seemed from simple sense to flow,
And the plain patriot smoothed the brow of law.
No specious swell, no frothy pomp of words
Fell on the cheated ear; no studied maze
Of declamation, to perplex the right,
He darkening threw around; safe in itself,
In its own force, all-powerful Reason spoke;
While on the great, the ruling point, at once,
He streamed decisive day, and showed it vain
To lengthen further out the clear debate.
Conviction breathes conviction; to the heart,
Poured ardent forth in eloquence unbid,
The heart attends: for let the venal try
Their every hardening, stupifying art,
Truth must prevail, zeal will enkindle zeal,
And Nature, skilful touched, is honest still.
Behold him in the councils of his prince.
What faithful light he lends! How rare, in courts,
Such wisdom! such abilities! and joined
To virtue so determined, public zeal,
And honour of such adamantine proof,
As e'en corruption, hopeless, and o'erawed,
Durst not have tempted! yet of manners mild,
And winning every heart, he knew to please,
Nobly to please; while equally he scorned
Or adulation to receive, or give.
Happy the state, where wakes a ruling eye
Of such inspection keen, and general care!
Beneath a guard so vigilant, so pure,
Toil may resign his careless head to rest,
And ever-jealous freedom sleep in peace.
Ah! lost untimely! lost in downward days!
And many a patriot-counsel have with him lost!
Counsels, that might have humbled Britain's foe,
Her native foe, from eldest time by fate
Appointed, as did once a Talbot's arms.
Let learning, arts, let universal worth,
Lament a patron lost, a friend and judge,
Unlike the sons of vanity, that, veiled
Beneath the patron's prostituted name,
Dare sacrifice a worthy man to pride,
And flush confusion o'er an honest cheek.
When he conferred a grace, it seemed a debt
Which he to merit, to the public, paid,
And to the great all-bounteous Source of good!
His sympathizing heart itself received
The generous obligation he bestowed.
This, this indeed, is patronizing worth.
Their kind protector him the Muses own,
But scorn with noble ride the boasted aid
Of tasteless vanity's insulting hand.
The gracious stream, that cheers the lettered world,
Is not the noisy gift of summer's noon,
Whose sudden current, from the naked root,
Washes the little soil which yet remained,
And only more dejects the blushing flowers:
No, 'tis the soft-descending dews at eve,
The silent treasures of the vernal year,
Indulging deep their stores, the still night long;
Till, with returning morn, the freshened world,
Is fragrance all, all beauty, joy, and song.
Still let me view him in the pleasing light
Of private life, where pomp forgets to glare,
And where the plain unguarded soul is seen.
There, with that truest greatness he appeared,
Which thinks not of appearing; kindly veiled
In the soft graces of the friendly scene,
Inspiring social confidence and ease.
As free the converse of the wise and good,
As joyous, disentangling every power,
And breathing mixed improvement with delight,
As when amid the various-blossomed spring,
Or gentle beaming autumn's pensive shade,
The philosophic mind with nature talks.
Say ye, his sons, his dear remains, with whom
The father laid superfluous state aside,
Yet raised your filial duty thence the more,
With friendship raised it, with esteem, with love,
Beyond the ties of love, oh! speak the joy,
The pure serene, the cheerful vision mild,
The virtuous spirit, which his vacant hours,
In semblance of amusement, through the breast,
Infused. And thou, O Rundle! lend thy strain,
Thou darling friend! thou brother of his soul!
In whom the head and heart their stores unite;
Whatever fancy paints, invention pours,
Judgment digests, the well-tuned bosom feels,
Truth natural, moral, or divine, has taught,
The virtues dictate, or the Muses sing.
Lend me the plaint, which, to the lonely main,
With memory conversing, you will pour,
As on the pebbled shore you, pensive, stray,
Where Derry's mountains a bleak crescent form,
And mid their ample round receive the waves,
That from the frozen pole, resounding, rush,
Impetuous. Though from native sunshine driven,
Driven from your friends, th sunshine of the soul,
By slanderous zeal, and politics infirm,
Jealous of worth; yet will you bless your lot,
Yet will you triumph in your glorious fate,
Whence Talbot's friendship glows to future times,
Intrepid, warm; of kindred tempers born;
Nursed, by experience, into slow esteem,
Calm confidence unbounded, love not blind,
And the sweet light from mingled minds disclosed,
From mingled chymic oils as bursts the fire.
I too remember well that cheerful bowl,
Which round his table flowed. The serious there
Mixed with the sportive, with the learned the plain;
Mirth softened wisdom, candour tempered mirth;
And wit its honey lent, without the sting.
Not simple nature's unaffected sons,
The blameless Indians, round their forest-cheer,
In sunny lawn or shady covert set,
Hold more unspotted converse; nor, of old,
Rome's awful consuls, her dictator swains,
As on the product of their Sabine farms
They fared, with stricter virtue fed the soul;
Nor yet in Athens, at an Attic meal,
Where Socrates presided, fairer truth,
More elegant humanity, more grace,
Wit more refined, or deeper science reigned.
But far beyond the little vulgar bounds
Of family, or friends, or native land,
By just degrees, and with proportioned flame,
Extended his benevolence: a friend
To humankind, to parent nature's works.
Of free access, and of engaging grace,
Such as a brother to a brother owes,
He kept an open judging ear for all,
And spread an open countenance, where smiled
The fair effulgence of an open heart;
While on the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
With equal ray, his ready goodness shone:
For nothing human foreign was to him.
Thus to a dread inheritance, my Lord,
And hard to be supported, you succeed:
But, kept by virtue, as by virtue gained,
It will, through latest time, enrich your race,
When grosser wealth shall moulder into dust,
And with their authors in oblivion sunk
Vain titles lie, the servile badges oft
Of mean submission, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, through every land and age,
Of universal reason's various sons,
And e'en of God himself, sole perfect Judge!
Yet know, these noblest honours of the mind
On rigid terms descend: the high-placed heir,
Scanned by the public eye, that, with keen gaze,
Malignant seeks out faults, cannot through life,
Amid the nameless insects of a court,
Unheeded steal: but, with his sire compared,
He must be glorious, or he must be scorned.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, the officious Muse
May safely sing, and sing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear
That should a Talbot mourn. Ourselves, indeed,
Our country robbed of her delight and strength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy
That we such virtues knew, such virtues felt,
And feel them still, teaching our views to rise
Through ever-brightening scenes of future worlds,
Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone
To thoughtless dust, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues, claim another source,
Than the blind maze of undesigning blood;
Nor when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quenched beneath the gelid stream.
Methinks I see his mounting spirit, freed
From tangling earth, regain the realms of day,
Its native country; whence to bless mankind,
Eternal goodness on this darksome spot
Had rayed it down a while. Behold! approved
By the tremendous Judge of heaven and earth,
And to the Almighty Father's presence joined,
He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss,
Amid the human worthies. Glad around
Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out,
With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptured? - 'Tis the best of sons!
The best of friends! -- Too soon is realized
That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow!
Meanwhile the kindred souls of every land.
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error) mingled now,
In one selected, never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere, that binds thee down:
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes -
Scenes, that our gross ideas grovelling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.
Forgive, immortal shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impressed, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs,
And orphan's tears, embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties, all,
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to Heaven.
Glad Heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres
With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain that gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her to hymn
Whatever good and excellent she forms.

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The Athenaid: Volume II: Book the Seventeenth

Sicinus, long by unpropitious winds
Lock'd in Geræstus, to their fickle breath,
Half-adverse still, impatient spread the sail.
Six revolutions of the sun he spent
To gain Phaleron. To his lord's abode
He swiftly pass'd, when chance his wond'ring eyes
On Aristides fix'd. An open space
Reveal'd the hero, issuing sage commands.
Th' omnipotent artificer of worlds
From chaos seem'd with delegated pow'r
To have entrusted that selected man.
From ashes, lo! a city new ascends,
One winter's indefatigable toil
Of citizens, whose spirit unsubdu'd
Subdues calamity. Each visage wears
A cheerful hue, yet solemn. Through the streets
Successive numbers from adjacent fields
Drive odorif'rous loads of plants and flow'rs,
Which please the manes. Amaranth and rose,
Fresh parsley, myrtle, and whate'er the sun,
Now not remote from Aries in his course,
Call'd from the quick and vegetating womb
Of nature green or florid, from their seats
Of growth are borne for pious hands to weave
In fun'ral chaplets. From the Grecian states,
To honour Athens, their deputed chiefs,
Cleander foremost, throng the public place;
Whence Aristides with advancing speed
Salutes Sicinus: Welcome is thy face,
Good man, thou know'st; from Athens long estrang'd,
Now doubly welcome. In thy looks I read
Important news. Retiring from the crowd,
Swift in discourse, but full, Sicinus ran
Through all the series of his lord's exploits,
Which drew this question: Has thy patron ought
To ask of Aristides? Silent bow'd
Sicinus. Smiling then, the chief pursu'd:


Do thou attend the ceremonial pomp
Of obsequies to morrow; when the slain
At Salamis receive their just reward
From us, survivors by their glorious fall.
I have detain'd thee from Timothea long,
The first entitled to thy grateful news.


Now to that matron, whom beyond himself
He priz'd, Sicinus hastens. At her loom
He finds her placid o'er a web, whose glow
Of colours rivall'd Iris, where intent
She wove th' atchievements of her lord. Her skill
Had just portray'd Sandauce in the arms
Of Artamanes, when her children's doom
Congeal'd her breast. Themistocles in look
Expresses all that subtlety humane,
Which cozen'd superstition of her prey;
His godlike figure dignifies the work.
Two boys, two lovely little maids, surround
Th' illustrious artist, while their eyes pursue
Their mother's flying fingers in delight
Attentive. But their tutor once in view,
From absence long regretted, light with joy
To him they bound. Sicinus melts in tears
Of soft affection. They around him lift
Their gratulating voices, on his neck
Cling, and contend for kisses from those lips
Approv'd in kindness; as a flutt'ring brood
With chirping fondness, nature's sweetest note,
Inclose their feather'd parent, who attunes
Her tender pipe, and spreads endearing plumes.


Sicinus, cries Timothea, thou dost bring
Auspicious tidings; from my hero I
Expect no less. Unaided by the state,
A private man, like Hercules he went,
In his own pow'rs confiding, and secure.
Sit down, thou witness of my husband's worth,
Thyself a proof of his discerning choice
In thee, good man, by me and mine rever'd,
Discreet and faithful. No, Sicinus spake,
Thou art that proof, most faithful, most discreet,
Most excellent of women. Come, she said,
Suppress my praises; let me hear of none,
But his; and copious let thy story flow.


Glad through his whole heroic theme the sage,
By time to Attic eloquence inur'd,
Expatiates large; where loftiness of plan
Sustain'd by counsel, with exhaustless art
Pursu'd, now brought to valour's final proof,
Must end in sure success. His lord's commands
Observing strict, Acanthè's precious worth,
In talents, form and manners, he describes;
How she the aid of Chalcis had procur'd,
Her favour how Themistocles had won.


If he pursue to victory his plan,
Timothea said, and borrow from her hand
The means of glory, and the gen'ral good,
Tell him, that I can imitate with joy
Andromachè, who foster'd on her breast
Her Hector's offspring by a stol'n embrace.


Not such thy lot, sole mistress of a form
Match'd by perfection of the mind alone,
Sicinus cheerful answer'd. I attest
To this my firm belief th' all-ruling sire,
Let Horomazes be his name, or Jove.


Thou giv'st me transport-Thou hast leave to smile,
My good Sicinus, she replies-But heav'n
I too attest, that transport I conceive
Less for my own, than fair Acanthè's sake.
So amiably endow'd, so clear in fame,
Her purity resigning, she, alas!
Had prov'd the only suff'rer. Woman fall'n,
The more illustrious once, the more disgrac'd,
Ne'er can refume her lustre. Laurels hide
A hero's wanton lapse. The Greeks would bless
The guile which serves them, but to endless shame
The gen'rous auth'ress of that service doom.
Thou said'st, my husband from Cleander's sword
Solicits help; Cleander is my guest
With Ariphilia; ready in this port
His squadron lies; he plough'd the seas in quest
Of earliest action for the common cause.
Come, they are waiting for the night's repast.


She rose; Sicinus follow'd, and renew'd
In Ariphilia's and Cleander's ear
The wondrous narrative, but cautious veils
Acanthè's love. Timothea's looks approv'd.
He then concluded: Thus, to battle rous'd,
The force of half Euboea cas'd in steel
Against the tyrant Demonax I left;
But in the chace of that devouring wolf
On thee relies Themistocles for help,
Undaunted chief of Troezen. He replies:


Should I withhold it, by th' immortal gods,
The titles both of soldier and of friend
Were mine no longer. Ariphilia then,
Sweet as a vernal flow'r in early prime,
A Grace in manner, Hebè in her form:


Say, gentle sage, of Delphi's rev'rend priest,
Of Haliartus, and Oïleus' son,
Kind guests of mine, no tidings dost thou bear?


He answers: Them in Atalantè's isle
The turbulent Euripus yet confines;
They soon, fair matron, to thy lord and mine
Will add their strength and level from its base
The tyrant's hold. Amid this converse sweet
The warrior-poet Æschylus appears,
A grateful visitant to all. He spake:


Fair dame, admit me, introducing men
Who saw thy gallant consort yester morn
Erecting trophies; men themselves renown'd,
Oïlean Medon, and Apollo's priest
Long lost, whom I, unknowing of their fate,
Have clasp'd in transport, as Laertes' son,
When he review'd his metamorphos'd friends
In Circe's island to their pristine forms
Uprising by her charms. Timothea glad
Salutes the ent'ring heroes, Medon known
Before, Leonteus, Delphi's holy seer
With Artemisia's brother, strangers all,
But of deportment to command regard.


Then spake the Locrian: First of matrons, hail!
On Salaminian sands we parted last.
I have been long in Atalantè's isle
Sequester'd; but, determin'd to attend
The fun'ral honours which the morning pays
To brave Athenians slain, an hour serene
To cross the strait Euripus I embrac'd
For Chalcis. There thy consort fresh I found
In gather'd palms from Demonax o'erthrown
That day in battle. Hear the glorious tale,
Which from Themistocles himself I learn'd.
He, well-inform'd, the chiefs in either host
Distinctly told, their history, their names,
Their birth and deeds, on Hyacinthus most,
As most esteem'd, enlarg'd. That hapless youth
Was husband to Cleora; daughter she
Of Demonax was poison'd by her sire.
Survey this tablet, which before my sight
Thy hero took, with readiness of skill
Delineating the fight. Shew this, he said,
To my Timothea, friendly thou explain.
This part is Chalcis, this a champaign wide;
Here flows the sea, there winds a quarry dark.


Conceive a river by impetuous floods
O'erswol'n, and spread irregular, and wild,
Beyond its bounds; tumultuous thus the foes
At first appear'd. Expecting to surprise,
Themselves surpris'd at unexpected bands,
Through open'd portals issuing to the plain,
Are forc'd, dishearten'd by a toilsome march,
To range their numbers for immediate fight.
The wary son of Neocles suspends
Th' attack, till bursting drifts of southern clouds
Beat on the faces of his harrass'd foes
A storm of blinding sleet; then rushes down
In three deep columns. Of th' Orean line
The right, which Mindarus conducting wheels
Along the sea's flat margin, sore is gall'd
By unremitted show'rs from bows and slings
On well-rang'd vessels. Lamachus commands
The left. Nearchus from the quarry pours
An ambush'd force, and breaks the hostile flank.
Compact of vet'rans, cull'd from ev'ry state,
That wedge of war, whose bristly front display'd
Athenian spears and Spartan mingling beams,
(Themistocles the leader) slow but sure
Bears down the center. At a second breach
The line gives way to Cleon, at a third
To swift Carystians. Not a life is spar'd
By wrong'd, incens'd Eretrians, not a life
By Hyacinthus, boiling with revenge
For his Cleora; while her cruel sire
Exerts a desp'rate valour to revive
Hope in an army spiritless by toil,
By sudden onset broken, at the name
And sight of thy Themistocles abash'd.
The rout is gen'ral. In the bloody chace
Five thousand slain the conquerors despoil.
Thy husband, prudent in success, preserves
Two thousand heads, all Persian, to redeem
Eretrian captives from the tyrant's bonds.
He, thus defeated, not subdu'd, retir'd
To Oreus. Pow'rful remnants of his host
He, draws within her circuit; furnish'd well
From boundless treasure, threatens there to hold
A firm defence, till, summon'd by the spring,
Mardonius quit Thessalia, and employ
The whole confederated pow'r of Greece.


That threat Themistocles will render vain,
Exults Timothea; he unfinish'd leaves
No toil begun. Again the Locrian chief:


Now my first duty is discharg'd; the next
To Ariphilia from her guest is due.
O soft in virtue, elegantly fair,
Cleander's favour'd paranymph retains
Thy hospitable kindness ever dear;
Thine too, my gallant host, by Neptune bless'd
In his own priestess, and with brightest fame
On his own floods adorn'd. The pleasing hours
All spend in mutual gratulation sweet,
Till for the morn's solemnity they part.


Below th' Ægalean mountain, where the king
Of humbled Asia on his golden throne
Was seated late, spectator of his shame
At Salamis, a level space extends
To Neptune's border. Green Psittalia there
Full opposite exhibits, high and large,
A new erected trophy. Twenty masts
Appear, the tallest of Phoenician pines,
In circular position. Round their base
Are massive anchors, rudders, yards, and oars,
Irregularly pil'd, with beaks of brass,
And naval sculpture from Barbarian sterns,
Stupendous by confusion. Crested helms
Above, bright mail, habergeons scal'd in gold,
And figur'd shields along the spiry wood
Up to th' aerial heads in order wind,
Tremendous emblems of gigantic Mars.
Spears, bristling through the intervals, uprear
Their points obliquely; gilded staves project
Embroider'd colours; darts and arrows hang
In glitt'ring clusters. On the topmost height
Th' imperial standard broad, from Asia won,
Blaz'd in the sun, and floated in the wind.
Of smooth Pentelic marble on the beach,
Where flow'd the brine of Salamis, a tomb
Insculptur'd rose. Achievements of that day
When Asia's navy fell, in swelling forms
Fill'd on three sides the monument. The fourth,
Unfinish'd, open'd to th' interior grave.


Now, through Minerva's populace, who kept
Religious silence, first white-vested maids,
Who from the strand of Salamis had seen
The patriots slain, their sepulchre approach
With wreaths and garlands; then of chosen youths
A troop, whose valour had the fight surviv'd.
The younger matrons, husbands ripe in age,
Nor less in fame, succeed. Of either sex
The elders follow. Kindred of the dead
Come next, their wives, their children. Urns, which hold
The sacred ashes, are in open cars
Discover'd. One close chariot is reserv'd
For them, whose bodies fate from search conceal'd.
Last Aristides, in his civil robe,
Attracts the gazing multitude; his wheels,
Myronides, Xanthippus, Cimon great,
Aminias, Æschylus, and ev'ry chief
For prowess known attend. Around the tomb
Are plac'd the children; roses in the bud
Entwine their brows; their little grasp upholds
Green sprigs of myrtle; well instructed, all
Refrain from weeping o'er paternal dust,
Deposited by glory in the grave.
A high tribunal Aristides mounts;
Near him, on ev'ry side, are seats assign'd
To strangers held in honour. Medon there,
Leonteus, Timon, and the brother known
Of Caria's queen, Cleander, numbers more
From states ennobled in their names are seen.
The godlike man uprises; on the tomb
His eyes he fixes first; their lustre mild
He then diffuses o'er th' assembly vast,
Where not a tongue is heard, nor gesture seen.
So through unclouded skies the argent lamp
Of Dian visits with her light benign
A surface broad of water, where no breeze
Excites a swell, nor sighs among the reeds.


Your fathers, wise and lib'ral, he began,
Appointed public obsequies to all
Who die in battle for the public good,
Ye men of Athens. Not a groan, or tear
Must violate their ashes. These have gain'd
What all should envy; these, by virtuous death,
The height of human excellence have reach'd,
Have found the surest path to endless joy
With demigods and heroes in those fields,
Which tyrants ne'er can enter to molest
The blissful region; but are far remov'd
To realms of horror, and from righteous Jove
Endure the pains they merit from mankind.
There, if retaining, as they surely must,
The memory of things belov'd on earth,
It will enhance their happiness to know
Their offspring cherish'd, and their wives rever'd
By grateful Athens, whom their glorious fall
Exalts, whose daughters they preserv'd from shame,
Whose sons from bonds. This bliss benignant Jove,
Who loves the patriot, never can withhold
From them, who little would deserve that name,
Unless those sweetest charities they feel,
Paternal cares, and conjugal esteem,
The props of public and domestic weal.
Them to defend, Athenians, to maintain
Inviolate your altars, tombs and laws,
Let contemplation of the present rites
Give principle new strength. Behold a foe,
Who hath profan'd your ancestors in dust.
Lo! on a cross Leonidas affix'd,
His patriot bones expos'd to bleaching winds
By that Barbarian, Xerxes. Kings alone,
Obtuse of mind, illiberal, the brutes
Of human nature, can devise and act
Barbarities like these. But such a foe
Leagues Heav'n against him. Nemesis will join
With Grecian Mars, and all her furies plant
His foot on Asia's boundaries, to shake
An impious tyrant on his native throne.
Then of the patriot dead, whose swords prepar'd
Your way to glory, and achiev'd their own,
This recent tomb, when dress'd in eastern spoils,
Will best delight their manes, and proclaim
To Gods and men your gratitude and arms.


He paus'd. Ægaleos echo'd to the found
Of acclamation; Salamis reply'd.
But as the sun, when casual clouds before
His intercepted light have pass'd away,
Renews his splendour, so the righteous man
In eloquence and counsel thus again
Breaks forth: Xanthippus, in the gales of spring,
To brave the coast Barbaric you decree;
While, on Boeotia's plains, your phalanx meets
Mardonian ranks. Now hear of wond'rous acts
To you unknown, unpromis'd, just perform'd
By an Athenian. Winter hath not slept
Inactive; your Themistocles hath rous'd
That sluggish season by the clang of war;
A force creating by his matchless art,
He hath o'erthrown fierce Demonax, and coop'd
Within his fort. Delib'rate swift, my friends,
How to assist your hero; Justice calls
On ev'ry tongue ingenuous so to style
Themistocles; who wants but slender help.
Your skill, Athenians, in surmounting walls
Excels in Greece. Select experienc'd bands;
An instantaneous effort may o'erwhelm
Beneath the ruins of his last retreat
Euboea's scourge, whose prevalence might shut
That granary of Athens, and transfer
To Asia's num'rous camp your needful stores.


All in applauding admiration hear
Disinterested virtue, which exalts
A rival's merit. But thy gen'rous breast,
To all superior in sensation high
Divine Timothea, entertains a warmth
Of grateful rapture in thy lord's behalf,
Which shines confess'd. Sicinus, at her side,
Condemns his lord, who nothing would request
Of Aristides; him, who grants unask'd,
His soul adores. Aminias, rising, spake;
A fearless warrior, brother to the bard,
Like him sincere, less polish'd, learn'd and wise,
By right intention more than conduct sway'd:


Who can for all deliberate so well,
As Aristides singly? Let us fight;
But with sole pow'r of counsel and command,
Throughout this war's duration, by a law
Invest him uncontrollable. Up starts
The interrupting patriot, nor permits
The people's confidence in him to grow
In wild excess: Ne'er yet th' almighty sire
Created man of purity to hold
A trust like this. Athenians, mark my words;
I am your legal military chief;
If your immediate safety should require
An use of pow'r, unwarranted by laws,
I will exert it, not accept as law;
The censure or acquittal of my act
With you shall rest. At present I advise,
That from Phaleron Æschylus transport
Two thousand skilful vet'rans. Him the seed
Of Neocles approves; not less in arms
Than arts excelling, him your warriors prize.
Them, ere two monthly periods of the sun,
You cannot want. Thick verdure must invest
The meadows, earth her foodful stores mature,
Before Mardonius can his numbers lead
From Thessaly remote. Ere then, my friends,
Themistocles will conquer, and erect
Cecropia's standard on Orean walls;
Your timely aid he timely will restore
To fill the army of united Greece.


The gen'ral voice assents, and all retire,
While to her home Timothea brings her guests.
To her Sicinus prudent: Not an hour,
Till I rejoin thy consort, should be lost.
She then: Most faithful, from my arm receive
This bracelet rich in gems, Barbaric spoil;
Bear this to Chalcis, to Acanthè give;
Say, how I prize her elevated mind,
Enabling my Themistocles to quell
The hateful breed of tyrants. Further say,
The man engaging her connubial hand
I should esteem the favourite of gods.
Stay; Haliartus shall the present bear.
Thou to my lord a messenger of love
Shalt go, Sicinus; words to thee I leave;
My heart thou know'st. One fervent wish impart,
That he in private, as in public ties,
With Aristides may at last unite.


So spake the first of women. Troezen's chief
Subjoin'd: Sicinus, wait till morn; embark
With these our friends of Atalantè's isle
Aboard my squadron; soon will southern gales
My succour waft, and jointly we proclaim
Brave Æschylus to follow. Let us greet
Him, who our valour into action calls
For ev'ry chief to envy; him to clasp
My bosom pants, a hero, who surmounts
The sloth of winter while so many brave
Hang up their weapons. Ariphilia heard,
Sat mute and sad. To her Timothea thus:


We, who are wives of soldiers, will remain
Together, cheerful watch for tidings dear
Of their achievements, and rejoice at home.

End of the Seventeenth Book

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The Memory In The Grave Song

The memory in the grave is not mine
Thanks God
I must say
And that memory in the grave is hers
Unfortunately because it is very bad
And mine is in good shape

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Restrict the wants to things in hand

The milk that is not full in a vessel
Can be full in an exact vessel
And even spill over from a smaller one.
Your want is the vessel and things, the milk.
25.12.2000, Pmdi

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The Memory Remains Inside My Head

The memory remains insise my head
Because that is where my memory is kept
I don't have alzheimers it
And I don't want that for myself either
Let me tell you
My memory is very sharp

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Quatrain #504 - The memory of my parents will.........

The memory of my parents will live on in my heart
regardless of whether we are now physically apart.
Especially my mother who was very dear to me
inspite of whatever else there now appears to be.

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While We Are In The 'Scheme' Of Things

Oh well...
While we are in the 'scheme' of things.
And why those schemes,
Bring so much importance to some.
Let those who wish,
Choose to dismiss an evilness.
It is all around and easily found,
But those participating...
Will themselves come crashing down.

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In the memory of those that died nthat I loved so much

In the memory of the ones that died that I loved. We cry and walk away. the tears run into streams. No trace will remain and even those we grieve for. Nothing will be the same. Everything we feel will remain. written 12/12/07 Posted 8/3/09 In the memory of those I loved that died so suddenly

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Lost In The Memory of You

There were days so long ago
That time stood still
Truth came to be known
A passion from within
Lost in the memory of you

Kindness ruled the day
Laughter all around
Silence was stirring deep
The heart full of love
Lost in the memory of you

Sadness consumed the soul
For tomorrow would never come
Longing to be near
Yet distant and apart
Lost in the memory of you

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The Shape Of Things To Come

You should hear the warning if you read the signs
Play with your own life but dont play with mine
Youre living your way, Im living mine
May be tomorrow we will collide
If you knew the action, you see us so blind
Play with your own life but dont play with mine
The shape of things to come
The shape of things to come
Welcome to the future
Boyter, lewis, malcolm, ross/1991

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