Quotes about horn, page 2
The Silver Horn
"Come, rest with me now, my silver horn!
My melodious joy, my silver horn!
These many long years my constant friend,
Together let our toiling end.
Yet fain would I ask (were mine the choice)
For a moment of strength to give thee voice--
One silvery peal ere life shall cease;
But not for war--for blessed peace."
Yes! once again ring, sweet silver horn
That long ago rang on battle morn--
From vale and glen that summon'd then
To arms! to arms! a thousand men.
For peace ring now! for peace ring high!
Ring a welcoming peal that shall not die
Till mountain and mound, the earth around,
Responsive songs in echo sound.
"Thy whispers I hear, my silver horn!
My melodious joy, my silver horn!
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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Hunting Horn Of Chalemagne
SOUND not the Horn!--the guarded relic keep:
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep:
His life it gladden'd--to his life belong'd,--
Pause--ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd.
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand;
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand.
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore,
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore,--
Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell;
Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall,
From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall,
Down the ravine's precipitous descent,
Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went,
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond,
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond:
Pause!--the free winds that joyous blast have borne:--
Dead is the hunter!--silent be the horn!
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Orlando Furioso Canto 20
ARGUMENT
Guido and his from that foul haunt retire,
While all Astolpho chases with his horn,
Who to all quarters of the town sets fire,
Then roving singly round the world is borne.
Marphisa, for Gabrina's cause, in ire
Puts upon young Zerbino scathe and scorn,
And makes him guardian of Gabrina fell,
From whom he first learns news of Isabel.
I
Great fears the women of antiquity
In arms and hallowed arts as well have done,
And of their worthy works the memory
And lustre through this ample world has shone.
Praised is Camilla, with Harpalice,
For the fair course which they in battle run.
Corinna and Sappho, famous for their lore,
Shine two illustrious light, to set no more.
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poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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Knyghthode and Bataile
A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'
Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.
Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Hernani
Cistercians might crack their sides
With laughter, and exemption get,
At sight of heroes clasping brides,
And hearing--O the horn! the horn!
The horn of their obstructive debt!
But quit the stage, that note applies
For sermons cosmopolitan,
Hernani. Have we filched our prize,
Forgetting . . .? O the horn! the horn!
The horn of the Old Gentleman!
poem by George Meredith
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the Golden Horn Of Istanbul
THE ‘GOLDEN HORN’ OF
ISTANBUL
It is an inlet arm from the Bosphoros Strait,
Which stretches inwards towards the west;
And curves up like a deer’s horn, -
Known to the world as the ‘Golden Horn’!
It separates the old Istanbul’s historic city,
From its modern counterpart in the north;
Forming the world’s longest natural harbor,
A waterway almost 7.5 km long!
The harbor was once the Naval Headquarters
of the Byzantine Empire!
When a heavy chain guarded the inlet’s
entrance;
Stretching across the mouth of the ‘Horn’ entire;
From the Old City to the Galata Tower! *
The old city stands on seven hillocks, once
known as the ‘City of Seven Hills’;
And top of every rise, a temple, or a mosque
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poem by Raj Nandy
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Hind Horn
In Scotland there was a babie born,
Lill lal, etc.
And his name it was called young Hind Horn.
With a fal lal, etc.
He sent a letter to our king
That he was in love with his daughter Jean.
He's gien to her a silver wand,
With seven living lavrocks sitting thereon.
She's gien to him a diamond ring,
With seven bright diamonds set therein.
"When this ring grows pale and wan,
You may know by it my love is gane."
One day as he looked his ring upon,
He saw the diamonds pale and wan.
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Lines In Memory Of Edmund Morris
Dear Morris--here is your letter--
Can my answer reach you now?
Fate has left me your debtor,
You will remember how;
For I went away to Nantucket,
And you to the Isle of Orleans,
And when I was dawdling and dreaming
Over the ways and means
Of answering, the power was denied me,
Fate frowned and took her stand;
I have your unanswered letter
Here in my hand.
This--in your famous scribble,
It was ever a cryptic fist,
Cuneiform or Chaldaic
Meanings held in a mist.
Dear Morris, (now I'm inditing
And poring over your script)
I gather from the writing,
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poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Narrative And Dramatic The Wanderings Of Oisin
BOOK I
S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.
Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.
Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Georgic 3
Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,
Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,
You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,
Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,
Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus who
The story knows not, or that praiseless king
Busiris, and his altars? or by whom
Hath not the tale been told of Hylas young,
Latonian Delos and Hippodame,
And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,
Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,
By which I too may lift me from the dust,
And float triumphant through the mouths of men.
Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,
To lead the Muses with me, as I pass
To mine own country from the Aonian height;
I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palms
Of Idumaea, and raise a marble shrine
On thy green plain fast by the water-side,
Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,
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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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