Be contented when you have got all you want.
quote by Holbrook Jackson
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Such luxury is not for me. for friend Thad
A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
I do not know but feel I should.
Such luxury is not for me
I am contented with my lot.
I make no effort to impress
I have sufficient for my needs.
It matters not that I have less
than those who feel they must succeed
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
I see no reason to display
I much prefer my privacy.
I live my life in my own way
Accepting life’s reality
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
Though I indulge in fantasy
from time to time like everyone
I know it’s not reality
only a dream that’s quickly gone.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.
I earn my living honestly
although I’m just an artisan
Better to live quietly
as befits a simple man.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot
A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
Something I’ve never understood.
Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.
Tuesday,10 November 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,
How the handsome Yenadizze
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding;
How the gentle Chibiabos,
He the sweetest of musicians,
Sang his songs of love and longing;
How Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
Told his tales of strange adventure,
That the feast might be more joyous,
That the time might pass more gayly,
And the guests be more contented.
Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis
Made at Hiawatha's wedding;
All the bowls were made of bass-wood,
White and polished very smoothly,
All the spoons of horn of bison,
Black and polished very smoothly.
She had sent through all the village
Messengers with wands of willow,
As a sign of invitation,
As a token of the feasting;
And the wedding guests assembled,
Clad in all their richest raiment,
Robes of fur and belts of wampum,
Splendid with their paint and plumage,
Beautiful with beads and tassels.
First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma,
And the pike, the Maskenozha,
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis;
Then on pemican they feasted,
Pemican and buffalo marrow,
Haunch of deer and hump of bison,
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin,
And the wild rice of the river.
But the gracious Hiawatha,
And the lovely Laughing Water,
And the careful old Nokomis,
Tasted not the food before them,
Only waited on the others
Only served their guests in silence.
And when all the guests had finished,
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy,
From an ample pouch of otter,
Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking
With tobacco from the South-land,
Mixed with bark of the red willow,
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.
Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Dance for us your merry dances,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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- quotes about literature
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The Song Of Hiawatha XI: Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,
How the handsome Yenadizze
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding;
How the gentle Chibiabos,
He the sweetest of musicians,
Sang his songs of love and longing;
How Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
Told his tales of strange adventure,
That the feast might be more joyous,
That the time might pass more gayly,
And the guests be more contented.
Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis
Made at Hiawatha's wedding;
All the bowls were made of bass-wood,
White and polished very smoothly,
All the spoons of horn of bison,
Black and polished very smoothly.
She had sent through all the village
Messengers with wands of willow,
As a sign of invitation,
As a token of the feasting;
And the wedding guests assembled,
Clad in all their richest raiment,
Robes of fur and belts of wampum,
Splendid with their paint and plumage,
Beautiful with beads and tassels.
First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma,
And the pike, the Maskenozha,
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis;
Then on pemican they feasted,
Pemican and buffalo marrow,
Haunch of deer and hump of bison,
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin,
And the wild rice of the river.
But the gracious Hiawatha,
And the lovely Laughing Water,
And the careful old Nokomis,
Tasted not the food before them,
Only waited on the others
Only served their guests in silence.
And when all the guests had finished,
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy,
From an ample pouch of otter,
Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking
With tobacco from the South-land,
Mixed with bark of the red willow,
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.
Then she said, 'O Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Dance for us your merry dances,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I Refuse to Lament
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
Why shoiuld we be here lamenting,
When lamenting makes no sense.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Voice From The Factories
WHEN fallen man from Paradise was driven,
Forth to a world of labour, death, and care;
Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven
Resolved one brief memorial to spare,
And gave his offspring an imperfect share
Of that lost happiness, amid decay;
Making their first approach to life seem fair,
And giving, for the Eden past away,
CHILDHOOD, the weary life's long happy holyday.
II.
Sacred to heavenly peace, those years remain!
And when with clouds their dawn is overcast,
Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain
(Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast,
Because that season's sadness may not last).
Light is their grief! a word of fondness cheers
The unhaunted heart; the shadow glideth past;
Unknown to them the weight of boding fears,
And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving tears.
III.
See the Stage-Wonder (taught to earn its bread
By the exertion of an infant skill),
Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed,
And mime, obedient to the public will.
Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill
With a vexatious sympathy, to see
That child prepare to play its part, and still
With simulated airs of gaiety
Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee?
IV.
Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands,
Glances below for friend or father's face,
Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands
With the taught movements of an artist's grace:
Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place--
Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way--
And runs along with scarce perceptible pace--
Like a bright bird upon a waving spray,
Fluttering and sinking still, whene'er the branches play.
V.
Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile
Its innocent lips assume; (the dancer's leer!)
Conquering its terror for a little while:
Then lets the TRUTH OF INFANCY appear,
And with a stare of numbed and childish fear
Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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- quotes about hou
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- quotes about resignation
The Victories Of Love. Book I
I
From Frederick Graham
Mother, I smile at your alarms!
I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,
But, like all nursery maladies,
Love is not badly taken twice.
Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,
My playmate in the pleasant days
At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,
The twins, so made on the same plan,
That one wore blue, the other white,
To mark them to their father's sight;
And how, at Knatchley harvesting,
You bade me kiss her in the ring,
Like Anne and all the others? You,
That never of my sickness knew,
Will laugh, yet had I the disease,
And gravely, if the signs are these:
As, ere the Spring has any power,
The almond branch all turns to flower,
Though not a leaf is out, so she
The bloom of life provoked in me;
And, hard till then and selfish, I
Was thenceforth nought but sanctity
And service: life was mere delight
In being wholly good and right,
As she was; just, without a slur;
Honouring myself no less than her;
Obeying, in the loneliest place,
Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace
Assured that one so fair, so true,
He only served that was so too.
For me, hence weak towards the weak,
No more the unnested blackbird's shriek
Startled the light-leaved wood; on high
Wander'd the gadding butterfly,
Unscared by my flung cap; the bee,
Rifling the hollyhock in glee,
Was no more trapp'd with his own flower,
And for his honey slain. Her power,
From great things even to the grass
Through which the unfenced footways pass,
Was law, and that which keeps the law,
Cherubic gaiety and awe;
Day was her doing, and the lark
Had reason for his song; the dark
In anagram innumerous spelt
Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt;
[...] Read more
poem by Coventry Patmore
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He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.
quote by Socrates
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Beautiful Love
Beautiful love, you're all a mystery
Beautiful love, what have you done to me?
I was contented 'till you came along
Thrilling, my soul with your song
Beautiful love, you're all a mystery
Beautiful love, what have you done to me?
I was contented 'till you came along
will my dreams come true
Beautiful love,I've roamed your paradise
Searching for love, my dreams to realise
Reaching for heaven,depending on you
Beautiful love,will my dreams come true
song performed by Helmet
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We cannot be contented because we are happy, and we cannot be happy because we are contented.
quote by Walter Savage Landor
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Nautical Wheelers
By: jimmy buffett
1974
Nautical wheelers who call themselves sailors
Play fiddle tunes under the stars
Petticoats rustle, workin shoes scuffle
Shuffle on down to the bar
Where the jukebox is blastin and the liquor is flowin
An occasional bottle of wine
Thats cause everyone here is just more than contented
To be livin and dyin in three-quarter time
Chorus:
And its dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
Take me to stars that you know
Come on and dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
I want so badly to go
Well, the left footll follow
Where the right foot has travelled
Down to the sidewalks unglued
Into the streets of my city so neat
Where nobody cares what you do
Sonias just grinnin and phil is ecstatic
Mason has jumped in the sea
And Im hangin on to a line from my sailboat
All nautical wheelers save me
Chorus:
And its dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
Take me to stars that you know
Come on and dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
I want so badly to go
Well the sunrisell bring on
Sleep thats escaped us
Everyones off to their bed
Therell be huggin, squeezin
Little pleazin and teasin
And rubbin of each others heads
So wont you dream on compadres, seems nothing escapes you
Nothin, no reason, no rhyme
Thats cause everyone here is just more than contented
To be livin and dyin in three-quarter time
Chorus:
And its dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
Take me to stars that you know
Come on and dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers
I want so badly to go
Coda:
I want so badly to go
Yes, I want so badly to go
song performed by Jimmy Buffett
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Once In A While
(m. edwards, b. green)
Once in a while,
Will you try
To give one little thought to me,
Though someone else may be
Nearer your heart?
Once in a while,
Will you dream
Of the moments
I shared with you,
Moments before we two
Drifted apart?
In loves smoldering ember,
One spark may remain.
If love still can remember,
That spark may burn again.
I know that ill
Be contented with
Yesterdays memory,
Knowing you think of me
Once in a while.
~interlude~
Once in a while...
In loves smoldering ember,
One spark may remain.
If love still can remember,
The spark may burn again.
I know that ill
Be contented with
Yesterdays memory,
Knowing you think of me
Once in a while...
Once in a while.
song performed by Nat King Cole
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The Coo of the Cushat
Over the smooth lawns, broider'd with violets,
Over the hedges of snow-white thorn,
Over the billowy, pink apple-blossoms,
The musical coo of the cushat is borne.
In the still depths of the dim old plantations,
Where the sweet whispering night-wind stirs
The delicate scent from the dew-sprinkled flowers,
It sings by its nest in the tall green firs.
So peaceful, so pure, so divinely contented,
The world out of sight and its true love nigh
Their little grey wings softly folded together,—
What dreams I have set to that melody!
I listen at dawn, and I listen at even;
I hear the notes bubbling all day long
Through the woodpecker's laugh and the chirp of the titmouse,—
Little dove, yours is the sweetest song!
'Tis not a sad song, though it sets me a-crying—
But gladness too deep to be spoken aloud;
Nor forlorn, though 'tis sung in the loneliest places—
But only too sacred to sing to a crowd.
I envy you, though you're so small and so humble;
I wish I were like you, you shy little dove—
So far from the world and so free from its passion,
Yet sure of your white eggs and sure of your love.
I wish I were pure from low earthly ambitions,
As quiet and calm and contented as you;
I wish my heart held such a well-spring of music,
That I were as gentle and trustful and true.
Little dove, you were worthy to carry the olive
Over the waters to Noah's host,
To die for the mother of Christ in the Temple,
To be chosen for shrine of the Holy Ghost.
And now you have only to live and be happy,
To rear up your young ones and teach them to coo;
O sing on, and teach me the heavenly lessons,
To be faithful and worthy of God's work too.
Teach me so humbly to take what He gives me,
The manifold duties, the great and the small;
Teach me so simply to do what He bids me,
Loving and trustful, and thankful for all.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Ignorant Bliss
The status quo, Oh! How I hate that word.
It always summons to my mind a bleak
Condition. Something static; the absurd.
Incapable of change. A sluggish clique
Contented to remain immovable.
Consequently, the common people keen
To worship creeds that are improvable.
Beliefs in doctrines as contrived as dreams.
The branded multitude we label free.
The mark is either cross or star to make
A difference. There’s no difference! See
The cows in meadows! Their future is Steak!
We also are contented creatures, dumb.
Unable to assert ourselves. How come?
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Beggar's Daughter of Bednall-Green
Part the First
Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
And though shee was of favor most faire,
Yett seing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
'Good father, and mother, let me goe away
To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.'
This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
From father and mother alone parted shee,
Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow,
Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe;
With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
Where at the Queenes Armes entertained was shee,
Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
But master and mistres and all was her friend;
And every brave gallant that once did her see
Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
Her beawtye was blazed in every degree,
Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
Shee shewed herself courteous, and modestlye coye,
And at her commandment still wold they bee,
Soe fayre and so comelye was pretty Bessee.
Foure suitors att once unto her did goe,
They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
'I wild not wish gentles to marry with mee,-'
Yett ever they honored pretty Bessee.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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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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Contented Mother
Behold the truth in black and white,
Two Pandas truly blessed,
Together, what a wondrous sight,
No wonder we're impressed!
There's the mother, so contented,
As proud as proud can be...
There's the baby there, presented,
For all the world to see!
To think, the mother's lived so long,
Endangered though she is,
Yet now her hopes are oh so strong,
Her heart's now filled with bliss...
Her baby's barely got a clue,
Yet peace seems everywhere,
A tender touch says, 'I love you! '
For true love's in the air!
Yet each father, mother, baby
Needs something to be done!
Each Panda has a destiny,
If Man protects each one...
Consider wildlife charities,
Can you provide support?
The chiefest of all remedies
Is that we spare a thought...
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Contented Mother'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Epilogue--To The Poet's Sitter
Wherein he excuseth himself for the manner of the Portrait.
Alas! now wilt thou chide, and say (I deem),
My figured descant hides the simple theme:
Or in another wise reproving, say
I ill observe thine own high reticent way.
Oh, pardon, that I testify of thee
What thou couldst never speak, nor others be!
Yet (for the book is not more innocent
Of what the gazer's eyes makes so intent),
She will but smile, perhaps, that I find my fair
Sufficing scope in such strait theme as her.
'Bird of the sun! the stars' wild honey-bee!
Is your gold browsing done so thoroughly?
Or sinks a singed wing to narrow nest in me?'
(Thus she might say: for not this lowly vein
Out-deprecates her deprecating strain.)
Oh, you mistake, dear lady, quite; nor know
Ether was strict as you, its loftiness as low!
The heavens do not advance their majesty
Over their marge; beyond his empery
The ensigns of the wind are not unfurled,
His reign is hooped in by the pale o' the world.
'Tis not the continent, but the contained,
That pleasaunce makes or prison, loose or chained.
Too much alike or little captives me,
For all oppression is captivity.
What groweth to its height demands no higher;
The limit limits not, but the desire.
Give but my spirit its desired scope, -
A giant in a pismire, I not grope;
Deny it,--and an ant, with on my back
A firmament, the skiey vault will crack.
Our minds make their own Termini, nor call
The issuing circumscriptions great or small;
So high constructing Nature lessons to us all:
Who optics gives accommodate to see
Your countenance large as looks the sun to be,
And distant greatness less than near humanity.
We, therefore, with a sure instinctive mind,
An equal spaciousness of bondage find
In confines far or near, of air or our own kind.
Our looks and longings, which affront the stars,
Most richly bruised against their golden bars,
Delighted captives of their flaming spears,
Find a restraint restrainless which appears
[...] Read more
poem by Francis Thompson
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How Polly Paid For Her Keep
Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why,
damme,
You might as well ask if I know my own name?
It's a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy,
Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim.
He asks if I know little Poll! Why, I nursed her
As often, I reckon as old Mother Brown
When they lived at the “Flats,” and old Sam
went a burster
In Chinaman's Gully, and dropped every crown.
My golden-haired mate, ever brimful of folly
And childish conceit, and yet ready to rest
Contented beside me, 'twas I who taught Polly
To handle four horses along with the best.
"Twas funny to hear the small fairy discoursing
Of horses and drivers! I'll swear that she knew
Every one of the nags that I drove to the “Crossing,”
Their vices, and paces, and pedigrees too.
She got a strange whim in her golden-haired noodle
That a driver's high seat was a kind of a throne,
I've taken her up there before she could toddle,
And she'd talk to the nags in a tongue of her own.
Then old Mother Brown got the horrors around her:
(I think it was pineapple-rum drove her daft)
She cleared out one night, and the next morning they
found her,
A mummified mass, in a forty foot shaft.
And Sammy? Well, Sammy was wailing and weeping,
And raving, and raising the devil's own row;
He was only too glad to give into our keeping
His motherless babe - we'd have kept her till now
[...] Read more
poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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The Cry Of The People
Fire! Fire! Fire! the cry rang out on the night air,
The roving winds caught it up, and the very heavens resounded.
Louder and louder still, by voices grown hoarse with terror,
The cry went up and out and a nation stood still to listen.
'Come, for the love of God, and help us fight the demon!
Come and help us to chain the fiend that is making us homeless:
His hot and scorching breath has melted our hard-earned fortunes,
And, not contented with this, he is snatching our loved ones from us.
The air is thick with the stream that pours in clouds from his nostrils:
Come, for the love of God, and help us to fetter or slay him.'
The ear of the Nation heard, the heart of the Nation responded:
The smith left anvil and forge, and hastened to render assistance;
The clergyman went from the pulpit, the lawyer went from his office,
The houses of trade were closed, and a Nation was in commotion.
For the hungry tongue of Fire was lapping the skirts of the city,
The royal Queen of the West, and her people were crying in anguish.
Nobly and well they worked, till they chained and fettered the demon,
Bound him hand and foot, and hindered his work of destruction.
Over the land on wires, over the mighty cable,
Flashed the terrible truth: 'Ruin and destitution
Reigns where but yesterday there was lavish wealth and plenty.'
And up from the South came aid, and aid came down from the Northland,
And it came from East and West, wholesome food for the hungry,
Shelter for houseless heads, and clothes to cover the naked.
Hark! there's a sound abroad, like the cry of a suffering people,
Loud and louder it swells, and echoes from ocean to ocean,
The raving winds catch it up, and from throats that are hoarse with crying
The wail goes up and out, but is answered only by echoes.
'Come for the love of God, and help us to fetter the demon
That is taking the bread from our mouths, and the mouths of our helpless children;
He is walking abroad in the land, and all things perish before him:
Homesteads crumble away, and fortunes vanish like snow wreaths;
And, not contented with this, he is slaying our best and our fairest,
Stealing the brains of the wise, and bringing the young to the gallows;
He is making the home forlorn, and crowding the jails and the prisons,
He moves the hand of the thief-he drives the assassin's dagger.'
The ear of the Nation is deaf, the heart of the Nation is hardened:
The smith at his anvil and forge sings in the midst of his labor;
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Answers In A Game Of Questions
THE LADY.
IN the small and great world too,
What most charms a woman's heart?
It is doubtless what is new,
For its blossoms joy impart;
Nobler far is what is true,
For fresh blossoms it can shoot
Even in the time of fruit.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
With the Nymphs in wood and cave
Paris was acquainted well,
Till Zeus sent, to make him rave,
Three of those in Heav'n who dwell;
And the choice more trouble gave
Than e'er fell to mortal lot,
Whether in old times or not.
THE EXPERIENCED.
Tenderly a woman view,
And thoult win her, take my word;
He who's quick and saucy too,
Will of all men be preferr'd;
Who ne'er seems as if he knew
If he pleases, if he charms,--
He 'tis injures, he 'tis harms.
THE CONTENTED.
Manifold is human strife,
Human passion, human pain;
Many a blessing yet is rife,
Many pleasures still remain.
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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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