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  1. #16
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    Blog- In Tribute to Samuel Johnson, reference, drury-lane-prologue-spoken-by-mr-garrick-at-the-opening-of-the-theatre-in-drury-lane-1747
    Blog Posted:8/7/2020 8:16:00 AM
    Blog- Tribute to Samuel Johnson


    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...rury-lane-1747


    Drury-lane Prologue Spoken, by Mr. Garrick at the Opening of the Theatre in Drury-Lane, 1747
    BY SAMUEL JOHNSON

    When Learning’s triumph o’er her barb’rous foes
    First rear’d the stage, immortal Shakespear rose;
    Each change of many-colour’d life he drew,
    Exhausted worlds, and then imagin’d new:
    Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
    And panting Time toil’d after him in vain:
    His pow’rful strokes presiding Truth impress’d,
    And unresisted Passion storm’d the breast.

    Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
    To please in method, and invent by rule;
    His studious patience, and laborious art,
    By regular approach essay’d the heart;
    Cold Approbation gave the ling’ring bays,
    For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
    A mortal born he met the general doom,
    But left, like Egypt’s kings, a lasting tomb.

    The Wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
    Nor wish’d for Jonson’s art, or Shakespear’s flame,
    Themselves they studied, as they felt, they writ,
    Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
    Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
    They pleas’d their age, and did not aim to mend.
    Yet bards like these aspir’d to lasting praise,
    And proudly hop’d to pimp in future days.
    Their cause was gen’ral, their supports were strong,
    Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long;
    Till Shame regain’d the post that Sense betray’d,
    And Virtue call’d Oblivion to her aid.

    Then crush’d by rules, and weaken’d as refin’d,
    For years the pow’r of tragedy declin’d;
    From bard, to bard, the frigid caution crept,
    Till Declamation roar’d, while Passion slept.
    Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
    Philosophy remain’d, though Nature fled.
    But forc’d at length her ancient reign to quit,
    She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit:
    Exulting Folly hail’d the joyful day,
    And pantomime, and song, confirm’d her sway.

    But who the coming changes can presage,
    And mark the future periods of the stage?—
    Perhaps if skill could distant times explore,
    New Behns, new Durfoys, yet remain in store.
    Perhaps, where Lear has rav’d, and Hamlet died,
    On flying cars new sorcerers may ride.
    Perhaps, for who can guess th’ effects of chance?
    Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.

    Hard is his lot, that here by Fortune plac’d,
    Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
    With ev’ry meteor of caprice must play,
    And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day.
    Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice,
    The stage but echoes back the public voice.
    The drama’s laws the drama’s patrons give,
    For we that live to please, must please to live.

    Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
    As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
    ’Tis yours this night to bid the reign commence
    Of rescu’d Nature, and reviving Sense;
    To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show,
    For useful Mirth, and salutary Woe;
    Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,
    And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.
    ------ BY SAMUEL JOHNSON

    ************************************************** ******

    Illuminations, Temptations, Life's Travails Endured

    Weep for Truth that man's inherent evil betrayed
    Zeus hurled lightning bolts, paradise dreams delayed;
    Intriguing words, those tales of mythological beasts
    Sirens tempt, alluring songs, dark orgasmic feasts:
    Man that so blindly eats, stirring to walk upright,
    Consuming illusions of life's selfish delights:
    No more than mere cannibals of impish degrees
    Born of midnight madness and seed from dying trees.

    Man in darkened lusts seeking illicit spoils
    Raping with greed, as seas of sewage churns and boils
    Flying through phantasms of barbaric hate
    Rising as a charred Phoenix of dooming Fate
    Unto dawn's fiery breath, its unfulfilled dreams
    While harbinger of death, drowns with malignant streams
    Gasping from a multitude of overwhelming lust
    Avoiding light, truth of one day turning back to dust.

    From the beginnings of aspirations and greed
    First wailing cry, signifying an evil seed
    Crawling as a mere babe down in well trodden dirt
    Yet unacquainted, to life's many flesh-born hurts
    Weak, ever needful under mother's tender cloak
    Destined to serve, slave under temptation's yoke
    Taught to seek, what sensual pleasures thus abound
    Ecstasy's whispers, allures that truly astound.

    Born of flesh, a searing flame too oft set to rage
    Whether a pauper or prince, each coming of age
    Reaching that mature stage when new blacken chart sets
    Course of life, and all, whatever future begets
    Letting dark to sully and run its wicked course
    Rampaging, destroying, without fear or remorse
    A Caesar in power, born of demonic ways
    God of deceit, creator of a dancing malaise.

    Standing aloft, contemptuous of good and light
    Evolving monster, lurking into darker nights
    Beset by arrogance, stand of a know it all
    An Achilles well before his sad fated fall
    Ignorant of Time, ill winds of eternal wrath
    Prancing, before a tumble from a crumbling path
    Left behind as humanity's cycles repeat
    Death touched, final blow, mankind's greatest defeat.

    Cast into oblivion, reduced to bleached bones
    Memory, marked by a plot, one white headstone
    Perhaps some tears that time too will one day erase
    Fruit of iniquity, sad harvests, a disgrace
    Ending, befit for one that embraced the dark
    Reduced to dust and sorrows, a stained mark
    Alas! To in error, such futile life so choose
    Playing with a marked deck, destined to lose!

    Robert J. Lindley, started 2-03- 2020.
    completed to post 8-06-2020
    A tribute to Samuel Johnson...
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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  3. #17
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    Blog on - Elysium, Greek mythology- AJAX - Robert Lindley's Blog
    About Robert Lindley(Show Details...)(Show Details...)

    Home Past Blogs Poems Photos Fav Poems Fav Poets
    Blog on - Elysium, Greek mythology- AJAX
    Blog Posted:8/18/2020 4:53:00 AM
    Elysium
    Greek mythology
    WRITTEN BY The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica
    Encyclopaedia Britannica's editors oversee subject areas in which they have extensive knowledge, whether from years of experience gained by working on that content or via study for an advanced degree....
    See Article History
    Alternative Titles: Elysian Fields, Elysian Plain
    Elysium, also called Elysian Fields or Elysian Plain, in Greek mythology, originally the paradise to which heroes on whom the gods conferred immortality were sent. It probably was retained from Minoan religion. In Homer’s writings the Elysian Plain was a land of perfect happiness at the end of the Earth, on the banks of the Oceanus. A similar description was given by Hesiod of the Isles of the Blessed. In the earlier authors, only those specially favoured by the gods entered Elysium and were made immortal. By the time of Hesiod, however, Elysium was a place for the blessed dead, and, from Pindar on, entrance was gained by a righteous life. Later writers made it a particular part of Hades, as in Virgil, Aeneid, Book VI.


    ************************************************** ********
    My Tribute poem

    With Promise Of Entry, Elysium

    Childhood, seeing from afar, candle burning bright
    with courage, imagination seeing life through
    always and forever the promise, heard each night-
    walk a brave path, receive entry, as is your due,
    heaven searching, whispers of two stars gazing back
    honor true, never shall a God's power you lack.

    Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
    on battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".

    Ajax, blessed child and great warrior born to be
    father- war god, mother a nymph of the blue seas
    as a child roaming forests, with sword and long spear
    a hero born and one totally without fear,
    star gazing- seeing death would come, Elysian fields
    his destiny, gifting all of its golden yields.

    Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
    On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".

    Ajax, scarred and toughened, many battles fought
    never surrendering, ever giving his all
    a warrior true, there within Olympic feuds caught
    steady and ever mindful of his final fall,
    sky hunting, watching universe's resplendent glow
    as decreed by the Gods- set to put on a show.

    Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
    On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".

    Ajax, courageous warrior of Greek legend's fame
    gifted with prowess of strength and courage to match
    of Homer's Troy, that Greek hero, one and the same
    always fated, for a Trojan war death to catch,
    there on bloody soil, as Olympus had decreed
    death claimed he, born of true and heroic Greek seed.

    Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
    On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".

    R.J. Lindley, original version, May 9th, 1972
    Rhyme, ( On Homer, Greek Mythology, Greek Warriors )
    edited, and updated with link.. 8-18-2020

    Syllables Per Line:
    12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
    12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
    12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
    12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
    Total # Syllables:384
    Total # Words:256

    Notes:

    1. Elysium

    https://www.britannica.com/topic/Ely...reek-mythology

    Elysium
    Greek mythology
    WRITTEN BY
    The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica
    Encyclopaedia Britannica's editors oversee subject areas in which they have extensive knowledge, whether from years of experience gained by working on that content or via study for an advanced degree....
    See Article History
    Alternative Titles: Elysian Fields, Elysian Plain
    Elysium, also called Elysian Fields or Elysian Plain, in Greek mythology, originally the paradise to which heroes on whom the gods conferred immortality were sent. It probably was retained from Minoan religion. In Homer’s writings the Elysian Plain was a land of perfect happiness at the end of the Earth, on the banks of the Oceanus. A similar description was given by Hesiod of the Isles of the Blessed. In the earlier authors, only those specially favoured by the gods entered Elysium and were made immortal. By the time of Hesiod, however, Elysium was a place for the blessed dead, and, from Pindar on, entrance was gained by a righteous life. Later writers made it a particular part of Hades, as in Virgil, Aeneid, Book VI.

    2. Ajax

    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ajax_the_Great


    Ajax the Great
    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

    Ajax (/'e?d?æks/) or Aias (/'a?.?s/; Ancient Greek: Α?ας, romanized: Aías [aí?.a?s], gen. Α?αντος Aíantos; archaic ΑΣ?Α? [aí?.wa?s])[a] is a Greek mythological hero, the son of King Telamon and Periboea, and the half-brother of Teucer.[1] He plays an important role, and is portrayed as a towering figure and a warrior of great courage in Homer's Iliad and in the Epic Cycle, a series of epic poems about the Trojan War. He is also referred to as "Telamonian Ajax" (Α?ας ? Τελαμ?νιος, in Etruscan recorded as Aivas Tlamunus), "Greater Ajax", or "Ajax the Great", which distinguishes him from Ajax, son of Oileus (Ajax the Lesser).
    Ajax is the son of Telamon, who was the son of Aeacus and grandson of Zeus, and his first wife Periboea. He is the cousin of Achilles, and is the elder half-brother of Teucer. His given name is derived from the root of α??ζω "to lament", translating to "one who laments; mourner". Hesiod, however, includes a story in "The Great Eoiae" that indicates Ajax received his name when Heracles prayed to Zeus that a son might be born to Telemon and Eriboea. Zeus sent an eagle (aietos - αετ?ς) as a sign. Heracles then bade the parents call their son Ajax after the eagle. Many illustrious Athenians, including Cimon, Miltiades, Alcibiades and the historian Thucydides, traced their descent from Ajax. On an Etruscan tomb dedicated to Racvi Satlnei in Bologna (5th century BC) there is an inscription that says aivastelmunsl, which means "[family] of Telamonian Ajax".[2]

    Description

    The Belvedere Torso, a marble sculpture carved in the first Century BC depicting Ajax.
    In Homer's Iliad he is described as of great stature, colossal frame and strongest of all the Achaeans. Known as the "bulwark of the Achaeans",[3] he was trained by the centaur Chiron (who had trained Ajax's father Telamon and Achilles's father Peleus and would later die of an accidental wound inflicted by Heracles, whom he was at the time training) at the same time as Achilles. He was described as fearless, strong and powerful but also with a very high level of combat intelligence. Ajax commands his army wielding a huge shield made of seven cow-hides with a layer of bronze. Most notably, Ajax is not wounded in any of the battles described in the Iliad, and he is the only principal character on either side who does not receive substantial assistance from any of the gods (except for Agamemnon) who take part in the battles, although, in book 13, Poseidon strikes Ajax with his staff, renewing his strength. Unlike Diomedes, Agamemnon, and Achilles, Ajax appears as a mainly defensive warrior, instrumental in the defense of the Greek camp and ships and that of Patroclus' body. When the Trojans are on the offensive, he is often seen covering the retreat of the Achaeans. Significantly, while one of the deadliest heroes in the whole poem, Ajax has no aristeia depicting him on the offensive.


    3. Olympus
    (A.)
    https://mythology.net/greek/greek-co...0mount%20often.


    What Is Mount Olympus?
    Mount Olympus is the mythical home of the gods in Greek mythology. According to authors, the mountain was created after the Titanomachy, the epic battle between the young gods, the Olympians and the older gods, the Titans. As a result of this battle, the Olympian victors created their new majestic home – Mount Olympus. It was shrouded from human eyes by clouds which constantly obscured its peaks. In Greece, you will also find a Mount Olympus, the tallest mountain in the country.

    Description
    The sacred mount was believed to have a temperate climate all year round, and mountain gorges lush with forests. The gods did not always reside in their paradise, however, and would depart or return from there via a gate of clouds guarded by the Horae, the goddesses of the seasons. Authors claim the tables in Zeus’ palace on Olympus were made of gold and were actually automatons, created by Hephaestus! They moved in and out of the rooms as required by the gods. Zeus’ throne was situated in the Pantheon, the meeting hall of the gods. It was also designed by Hephaestus and was constructed from black marble, inlaid with gold. Each of the gods had their own palace on the mountain, usually constructed of gold and marble, and situated in a gorge in the mountain peaks.

    Inhabitants
    All 12 Olympian gods resided at Mount Olympus: Zeus and his wife Hera, Athena, Poseidon, Artemis, Apollo, Demeter, Hester, Aphrodite, Hermes, Hephaestus and Ares. Since Hades resided in the underworld, he was not considered an Olympian god and did not visit the great mount often.

    The nine muses, the daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, resided at the foot of the mountain. According to some sources, the goddesses were water nymphs and were responsible for the following: Clio – history; Calliope – epic poetry; Thalia – comedy; Euterpe – lyric poetry; Terpsichore – dance; Melpomene – tragedy; Erato – love poetry; Urania – astronomy; and Polyhymnia – sacred poetry.

    The Olympians ruled Olympus until the monster Typhon attacked their stronghold. Typhon was allegedly a 100-headed fire-breathing dragon. When he attacked Olympus, the majority of the gods chose to flee, except for Zeus, Athena and Dionysus. Zeus was able to eventually defeat the giant monster with 100 lightning bolts, and banished him to Tartarus.

    ************
    (B.)

    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Olympus

    Name and mythological associations

    Muses' Plateau, with Stefani (the throne of Zeus) in the background
    The origin of the name ?λυμπος Olumpos is unknown and usually considered of "pre-Greek" origin. In Homeric Greek (Odyssey 6.42), the variant Ο?λυμπος Oulumpos occurs, conceived of as the seat of the gods (and not identified with any specific peak). Homer (Iliad 5.754, Odyssey 20.103) also appears to be using ο?λυμπος as a common noun, as a synonym of ο?ραν?ς ouranos "sky". Mount Olympus was historically also known as Mount Belus, after Iliad 1.591, where the seat of the gods is referred to as βηλ[?ς] θεσπεσ?ο[ς] "heavenly threshold".[a]

    In Ancient Greek religion and mythology, "Olympus" was the name of the home of the Twelve Olympian gods.[11] This was conceived of as a lofty mountaintop, and in all regions settled by Greek tribes, the highest local elevation tended to be so named; among the numerous peaks called Olumpos in antiquity are mountains in Mysia, Laconia, Lycia, Cyprus, Attica, Euboea, Ionia and Lesbos, and others. Thessalian Olympus is the highest peak in any territory with Greek settlement and came to be seen as the "Pan-Hellenic" representative of the mythological seat of the gods, by at least the 5th century BC, as Herodotus (1.56) identifies Olympus as the peak in Thessaly.

    In Pieria, at Olympus's northern foot, the mythological tradition had placed the nine Muses, patrons of the Fine Arts, daughters of Zeus and the Titanide Mnemosyne.[12]
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  4. #18
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    I just re-found this from long ago..
    A tribute given my poetry from Canadian poet- Arthur Vaso's blog.......... -Tyr

    Click link scroll down.
    I think my friend Arthur, did a truly wonderful job choosing the imagery to be presented with each poem.-Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 09-04-2020 at 06:36 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  5. #19
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    A Blog On- A vision as seen from a forty-year span...
    Blog Posted:9/5/2020 6:43:00 PM
    A Blog On- A vision as seen from a forty-year span...


    The Vision, The Reality, The Great Love Once Lost
    (First phase, looking at a past reality)


    She, an angel came in to buy a coke,
    through din of dancing noise, ghastly thick smoke
    a dream vision with a rose in her hair
    I looked in deeply, with a longing stare
    she gave me, her best million dollar smile
    that cried out, my new love, lets talk a while,
    she with those skin-tight shorts, her hippie style
    all her sexy beauty set to beguile.

    Then I knew she was surely Heaven sent,
    to free me, from my dark life so hellbent
    blessing so true, with her soft flowing glows
    so beautiful, as hope's paradise shows
    I thought, me with her, a miracle feat
    can love be born beyond mortal defeat,
    our first kiss, both eager hearts skipped a beat
    love's dessert given, we began to eat.

    Spring and summer's blessings, away they flew,
    this was our nirvana, as we both knew
    a love so deep something just had to give
    tho' without her loving, I could not live
    fate's wicked plan then began to unfold
    she believed those dark lies, others had told,
    venom thus born, her heart turned freezing cold
    casting me into heartbreak's dark stronghold.

    From that hell-born pit, I could see her tears,
    time raced onward through all those crying years
    she had moved on, so very far away
    while I in my new prison had to stay
    old and gray, so firmly chained in that cell
    this pleading soul, living torturous hell,
    on some nights, her sweet perfume I did smell
    yet against fate's black curse, I still rebel.

    She, an angel came in to buy a coke,
    through din of dancing noise, ghastly thick smoke
    a dream vision with a rose in her hair
    I looked in deeply, with a longing stare
    she gave me, her best million dollar smile
    that cried out, my new love, lets talk a while,
    she with those skin-tight shorts, her hippie style
    all her sexy beauty set to beguile.

    R.J. Lindley, May 2nd, 1980
    Narrative, ( Imprisoned, And Still Dreaming Of Her )

    Note:
    Poem is based upon a real encounter, a very beautiful
    girl. A loss and a romantic scar thus born....


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Tribute Paid To,
    "The Vision, The Reality, The Great Love Once Lost"
    (Second phase, poet's aged eyes looking at past reality)


    Dawn came, sandy seaside beach came alive,
    seeking a new romance to soul revive
    poet's heart begging that true love renew
    joy, former life, that away I once threw
    sun was beaming, as new world seemed to sing
    heart was dancing, begging life again bring,
    beautiful angel not a one-night fling
    for this sad soul had once lost everything.

    Seagulls overhead, sky was dancing too,
    I marveling at its fantastic blues
    white beach sands, were bare feet satisfying
    gone away, days of moaning and crying
    looking for a future of hope and love
    left behind evil world of push and shove,
    past sorrows, I no longer a part of
    a new man on quest for deeper, truelove.

    At water's edge dipping in toes to feel,
    saw a vision coming, could not be real
    yes she, that beauty of desirous dreams
    an angel sent to prove new love redeems
    I froze as thought came, this can not be so
    surely if I blink away this will go
    for she is dream goddess my love-dreams show
    dare I blink to see, to really know?

    Courage summoned, heart was all a flutter
    with gasping breath, prayer I did mutter
    dear Lord, please, please, let this be my reward
    you know my life has been so very hard
    from sky above a tender voice then spoke
    mercy cometh, love's promise is no joke
    now by faith, your spirit has again woke
    blessings come when faithful vows you invoke.

    Dawn came, sandy seaside beach came alive,
    seeking out a new romance to revive
    poet's heart begging that true love renew
    joy, former life, that away I once threw
    sun was beaming, as new world seemed to sing
    heart was dancing, begging life again bring,
    beautiful angel not a one-night fling
    for this sad soul had once lost everything.

    Robert J. Lindley, Sept.03-2020
    Narrative, ( Imprisoned, And Poetically Still Dreaming Of Her )

    Note:
    This second poem is based upon a real encounter, a very beautiful
    girl. A loss and a romantic scar thus born....
    as seen through a poet's aged eyes...
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  6. #20
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    A Blog on, "The Dying Indian" Philip Freneau - 1752-1832
    Blog Posted:9/7/2020 11:12:00 AM
    A Blog on, "The Dying Indian"
    Philip Freneau - 1752-1832
    https://poets.org/poem/dying-indian

    The Dying Indian
    Philip Freneau - 1752-1832


    “On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!
    Vigour, and youth, and active days are past—
    Relentless demons urge me to that shore
    On whose black forests all the dead are cast:—
    Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song,
    For I must go to shades below,
    Where all is strange and all is new;
    Companion to the airy throng!—
    What solitary streams,
    In dull and dreary dreams,
    All melancholy, must I rove along!

    To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!
    Groves of the dead departed mortals trace:
    No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
    No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace,
    But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
    That ramble through those visionary glades;
    No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
    But sickly orchards there
    Do fruits as sickly bear,
    And apples a consumptive visage shew,
    And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.

    Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
    Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
    Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
    Lazy and sad deluding waters flow—
    Such is the picture in my boding mind!
    Fine tales, indeed, they tell
    Of shades and purling rills,
    Where our dead fathers dwell
    Beyond the western hills,
    But when did ghost return his state to shew;
    Or who can promise half the tale is true?

    I too must be a fleeting ghost!—no more—
    None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
    I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
    For emptier groves below!
    Ye charming solitudes,
    Ye tall ascending woods,
    Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,
    Whose aspect still was sweet,
    Whether the sun did greet,
    Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams—
    Adieu to all!

    To all, that charmed me where I strayed,
    The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade;
    Adieu all triumphs here!
    Adieu the mountain’s lofty swell,
    Adieu, thou little verdant hill,
    And seas, and stars, and skies—farewell,
    For some remoter sphere!

    Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair,
    Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
    Nature at last these ruins may repair,
    When fate’s long dream is o’er, and she forgets to weep
    Some real world once more may be assigned,
    Some new born mansion for the immortal mind!
    Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
    To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
    Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
    Beyond the Huron bay!
    Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
    My trusty bow and arrows by my side,
    The cheerful bottle and the venison store;
    For long the journey is that I must go,
    Without a partner, and without a guide.”
    He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep,
    Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

    This poem is in the public domain.
    ************************************************** *

    https://paulreuben.website/pal/chap2/freneau.html

    Chapter 2: Early American Literature 1700-1800

    Philip Morin Freneau
    1752-1832

    © Paul P. Reuben

    September 10, 2019

    E-Mail
    |
    Page Links: | Primary Works | Selected Bibliography 1980-Present | Leader of 18th Century Naturalism | Four Aspects of Freneau | Study Questions | MLA Style Citation of this Web Page |
    | A Brief Biography |

    Site Links: | Chap 2 - Index | Alphabetical List | Table Of Contents | Home Page |

    Primary Works

    Poems. Edited with a critical introd. by Harry Hayden Clark. NY: Hafner Pub. Co., 1960, 1929. PS755 .A5 C6
    The poems of Philip Freneau, poet of the American Revolution. (1902) Edited for the Princeton Historical Association by Fred Lewis Pattee. NY: Russell & Russell, 1963. 3 vols. PS755 .A2

    Father Bombo's pilgrimage to Mecca, 1770. by Hugh Henry Brackenridge and Philip Freneau; edited, with an introd., by Michael Davitt Bell. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton U Library, 1975. PS708 B5 F3

    Selected Bibliography 1980-Present

    Blakemore, Steven. Literature, Intertextuality, and the American Revolution: From Common Sense to 'Rip Van Winkle'. Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 2012.

    Goudie, Sean X. Creole America: The West Indies and the Formation of Literature and Culture in the New Republic. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 2006.

    Hollander, John. ed. American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century, I: Philip Freneau to Walt Whitman. NY: Library of America, 1993.

    I. Freneau as Leader of 18th Century Naturalism

    1. Fresh interest in nature.
    2. The belief that nature is a revelation of God.

    3. Humanitarian sympathy for the humble and oppressed.

    4. The faith that people are naturally good.

    5. That they lived idyllic and benevolent lives in a primitive past before the advent of civilization.

    6. The radical doctrine that the golden age will dawn again when social institutions are modified, since they are responsible for existing evil.

    II. Aspects of Freneau

    1. Poet of American Independence: Freneau provides incentive and inspiration to the revolution by writing such poems as "The Rising Glory of America" and "Pictures of Columbus."
    2. Journalist: Freneau was editor and contributor of The Freeman's Journal (Philadelphia) from 1781-1784. In his writings, he advocated the essence of what is known as Jeffersonian democracy - decentralization of government, equality for the masses, etc.

    3. Freneau's Religion: Freneau is described as a deist - a believer in nature and humanity but not a pantheist. In deism, religion becomes an attitude of intellectual belief, not a matter of emotional of spiritual ecstasy. Freneau shows interest and sympathy for the humble and the oppressed.

    4. Freneau as Father of American Poetry: His major themes are death, nature, transition, and the human in nature. All of these themes become important in 19th century writing. His famous poems are "The Wild Honey-Suckle" (1786), "The Indian Burying Ground" (1787), "The Dying Indian: Tomo Chequi" (1784), "The Millennium" (1797), "On a Honey Bee" (1809), "To a Caty-Did" (1815), "On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature," "On the Uniformity and Perfection of Nature," and "On the Religion of Nature" (the last three written in 1815).

    | Top | Philip Freneau (1752-1832): A Brief Biography
    A Student Project by Nicholas von Teck

    Philip Freneau: Voice of Revolution
    In 1598 King Henry IV of France issued the Edict of Nantes, promising to protect the rights of his Huguenot (Protestant) subjects and allowing them to worship in their own churches. The Bourbon King Louis XIV rescinded the Edict of Nantes with the Act of Revocation of 1685, condemning the Protestant Huguenots to trials of heresy by the Roman Church; those who were not massacred fled to any place that would take them. Two large communities of Huguenots settled in the colonies of North America: one in the area around Charleston, South Carolina and the other, larger colony in the city of Nieuw Amsterdam. Shortly after the arrival of the Huguenots in Nieuw Holland, that colony was forfeited to the United Kingdom and renamed New York. In the early but nonetheless cosmopolitan environs of New York Town, these French Protestants found themselves with Dutch colonists, English colonial administrators, Jewish-German merchants, African slaves, and Native American converts. One of these Huguenot families was the Fresneaus from La Rochelle, France (Austin 50). They arrived there from England in 1709 (Leary 5).

    After a few generations, the Fresneaus who fought for space with the other New Yorkers in the small area of the city bounded by the Hudson and East rivers and Wall Street became the Freneaus who owned a prosperous plantation called Mount Pleasant in Monmouth County, New Jersey, and had a thousand slaves ( Clark xiv). Some traditions remain in families: Mont Plaisant was the name of the residence of the Fresneaus in La Rochelle, France (Austin 65). Despite being gentlemen farmers, each successive generation of Fresneaus carried on the family trade in wine, begun long before the Edict of Nantes, and Philip Freneau made many voyages to bring back port wines and madeiras (Clark xiv).

    Philip Morin Freneau was born at Mount Pleasant on 2 January 1752 (Old Style: the United Kingdom and its colonies had yet to convert to the Julian calendar and still used the Gregorian at this time &emdash; as a result, an Englishman traveling to the Continent had to set his calendar ahead twelve days after crossing the Channel). Philip was the eldest of the five children of Pierre Freneau and Agnes Watson (Austin 65), and the first to use the spelling Freneau (Bowden 15).

    Philip was schooled at Mount Pleasant until he was boarded with the Reverend William Tennent of Tennent's Church, New Jersey for his preparatory education in his tenth year in 1762 (Austin 72). His first known poem, "The Wild Honeysuckle," was penned about this time; the actual date of inscription is unknown, but tradition has Freneau writing it shortly before arriving at Tennent's Church (Austin 70). A little over three years later, in February, 1766, he was enrolled in the Penlopen Latin School in Monmouth under the tutelage of the Reverend Alexander Mitchell; he remained there until he was admitted to Nassau Hall at Princeton College, Princeton, New Jersey in 1768. During his time at Penlopen Latin, Philip's father died (Austin 73). Philip's mother, however, decided that Philip should continue his education and sent him along to Nassau Hall in due course, but with a tacit understanding between mother and son that he was to seek a degree in Divinity. He didn't (Leary 50).

    The roster of Philip's classmates reads like a litany of the American Pantheon: the Honorable Justices Hugh Brackenridge and Brockholst Livingston of the Supreme Court of the United States; Gunning Bedford, a framer of the Constitution; Aaron Burr, Vice-President of the United States; Colonel Henry "Light Horse Harry" Lee of Virginia; and James Madison, Fourth President of the United States of America; and several others, in addition to having as the president of his college the Reverend Witherspoon, a signer of the Declaration of Independence (Austin 74). Seldom has such a small group of students achieved such enduring legacy for Freneau's graduating class of 1770 held but ten students (Austin 75).

    | Top | During his sophomore year he wrote "The Poetical History of the Prophet Jonah," a "rhythymical (sic) poem, or 'versified paraphrase' to use his own expression." (Austin 76) At one-hundred-thirty-five lines it was considered remarkable for so young a poet and much commented on at the time, both at Princeton and at rival colleges such as Kings in New York, Harvard in Boston, and William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia (Austin 78). For graduation in 1771, he collaborated with (later Mr. Justice) Brackenridge on a poem they recited, "The Rising Glory of America," a blank verse dialogue (Austin 78). Brackenridge had earlier collaborated with Freneau on the mock epic "Father Bombo's Pilgrimage" (Bowden 22). Freneau also immortalizes Witherspoon in the poem "Caledonian Sage" and praised the "liberal education" he gained under Witherspoon's administration (Bowden 17). Among other activities, Witherspoon instituted student orations as a form of entertainment, and even allowed the students to chose their subjects for discourse, which Freneau satirizes in "The Distrest Orator." (Bowden 19) Interestingly, despite being a prodigal and prodigious student, Freneau did not attend his own graduation from Princeton; the fact that his mother remarried may have had something to do with it, but this period of Freneau's life is vague (Bowden 28).

    Freneau's first occupation was as a school teacher in Flatbush, Bruecklin (Brooklyn) County on Nassau (Long) Island. He lasted thirteen days with "the youth of that detested place" and "finally bid adieu" to "that brainless crew, … devoid of reason and grace." (Austin 80) He said his employers were "gentlemen of New York: bullies, merchants, and scoundrels." (Austin 80) In the same letter to a classmate, he also mentions that he had just written and published a poem of "some four-hundred-and-fifty lines … called 'The American Village' and a few short pieces as well." (Austin 80) However, he was soon forced to accept another teaching position, this one at Somerset Academy near Baltimore, Maryland, where he stayed until the end of term, 1773.

    Freneau had evidently collected his year's salary from Flatbush in advance, "some forty pounds," and expected his ex-employers to "trounce" him if they should find him (Austin 80). A Jamaican planter named Hanson invited Freneau to pay a prolonged visit to Hanson's plantation. As Hanson was also master of his own ship and was preparing to ship on the next tide, Freneau thought it behooved himself to clamber on board (Austin 83). During the passage, the first mate died and Freneau found himself learning the art of navigation by the "trial-by-fire" method (Austin 83). He discovered that he enjoyed it and eventually took master's papers (Austin 83).

    During his prolonged stay in Jamaica, he developed a dislike for slavery. This is interesting because, like most large farmers of the era, the Freneaus had both house and field slaves at Mount Pleasant, although they also had tenant farmers as well on their fairly large holdings (Austin 60). Freneau obviously villianized Hanson by creating the character of Sir Tobey the slave-owner in the poem "To Sir Tobey" (Austin 83). During the next few years, Freneau sailed as master around the Caribbean and visited the Bermudas, the Danish Virgin Islands, and the Gulf of Mexico (Austin 83). These travels were the inspiration for such poems as "House of Night" and "The Beauties of Santa Cruz"(Austin 85). In 1775 he also publishes "American Liberty" (Bowden 13).

    While Freneau sailed to and fro between the balmy Carib and the Delaware Bay, hostilities between Mother England and her colonies were growing to a fighting pitch. As soon as Freneau learned of the outbreak of revolution, he sailed back to New Jersey in the bark Amanda (it may not have actually been his, for he was recorded as being only the master of it) (Austin 105). Interestingly, the name for the "beauty" for whom his sings praises in his poem of the Caribbean poems is "Amanda" (Austin 86).

    Freneau arrives at Mount Pleasant to find it burned, and his mother and younger siblings living elsewhere; the Battle of Monmouth had been fought on Mount Pleasant (Austin 103). Freneau arranges for "lettres of marque," authorizing him to be a privateer and attack English shipping in order to seize cargo and vessels (Austin 104). While the bark Amanda sails under another master with him as the recorded owner, Freneau orders a new sloop built at Philadelphia; he names her Aurora (Austin 104).

    | Top | On 25 May 1778, Aurora left the ways at Philadelphia and stood out into Delaware Bay for Cape Henlopen and the Atlantic Ocean. Less than six hours later, Aurora had been chased and run aground by the English Captain Sir George Collier in HMS Iris (which before her own capture was ex-USS Hancock) and Freneau was captured (Austin 110). Lacking gallantry usually expected in a ship's master, Freneau at first denies he is the master when confronted by the prize-captain of HMS Iris (Leary 82). After he is handcuffed below decks with the "stench of seamen," Freneau finds a Tory aboard the frigate who knows him and begs recognition (Leary 82). Freneau was transported to the prison ship HMS Scorpion in New York Harbor, and later transferred again to the prison hospital ship HMS Hunter (Austin 113). This internment of nearly eighteen months was the genesis for the poem "The Prison Ship" (650 lines; published in 1780) in which he "compares the flight of [the] Aurora to the flight of Hector pursued by Achilles." (Austin 109) During this time, however, he does manage to contribute to Brackenridge's United States Magazine (Bowden 13). Freneau never recovered from the financial loss of Aurora (Clark xxiii).

    He was paroled on condition that he not resume arms against the King, and he evidently kept his word, but Freneau must have reckoned the old saw about the pen being mightier than the sword had some verisimilitude for he continued to raise his quill in rebellion for the rest of the Revolution (Austin 121). He found work as a printer and editor with the Freeman's Journal in Philadelphia (Bowden 13). Freneau wrote poems on various patriotic subjects such as the departure of the traitor Benedict Arnold, the Battle of Temple Hill, the melting by the printer Isaac Sears of his type into bullets, etc … (Austin 133). By 1786, he was master of the brig Washington and making round-trips to the Madeiras (Austin 138). He left behind a newly published volume, The Poems of Philip Freneau (Bowden 13). The next year, 1787, he returned long enough to publish a second volume, A Journey from Philadelphia to New York before again standing out to sea (Bowden 13). 1788 saw the publication of a third volume, The Miscellaneous Works of Mr. Philip Freneau (Bowden 13).

    In 1789 Freneau married Helen Forman of New Jersey, a sister of General David Forman, one of the founders of the Order of the Cincinnati (Austin 147). Helen Freneau is recorded as having a pleasant and "poetic" personality, and was a gracious hostess (Austin 149).

    Freneau was offered the position of editor of the Philadelphia Daily Advertiser, but before he could assume that position he was induced to become editor of the National Gazette instead at the paltry salary of $250 per annum (Austin 152). Freneau had never financially recovered from the loss of Aurora, and was still trying to run his family's estate at Mount Pleasant, and maintain all who depended on him: "family and slaves." (Austin 152) Despite writing "To Sir Tobey" nearly twenty years before, Freneau was still a slaveholder himself.

    | Top | The Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, offered Freneau the clerkship of "Interpreter of the French language for the Department of State" in 1793 (Austin 153). This raised a hue-and-cry of such proportions, and the appointment was so loudly denounced, that the offer was withdrawn; for some reason, many Philadephians at that time suspected Jefferson and Freneau of collusion and intrigue (Austin 156). Since Philadelphia was the seat of government at the time, and since Benjamin Franklin was then opposing Jefferson as to which form of government the foundling United States should adopt, Freneau was likely just a handy target for the pro-Franklin faction in their bid to undermine the Jeffersonian Republican-Democrats (Austin 156). The idea seems to have been that a clerk under Jefferson who just happened to be the editor of a major newspaper would give the Jeffersonians a propaganda leverage that would be nearly impossible to undermine if it were not stopped immediately (Austin 156). Austin qoutes a Mr. Benjamin as saying, "What Tyrtaeus was to the Spartans, was Freneau to the Republicans or anti-Federalists." (160) The allusion is that the National Gazette was, with Freneau as editor, a "powerful political paper." (Austin 160)

    ***********************************

    My dedication poem below . RJL

    (**Are We Not Brothers, Made From The Same Dirt,
    (Tribute to Philip Freneau and his poem,
    The Dying Indian)**)



    Are We Not Brothers, Made From The Same Dirt


    I welcome you sweet dawn, soft break of day
    As your vibrant voice sounds, seeming to say
    Lad, I bid you relief from dark and gray
    Feel my coming golden rays and rejoice
    So precious life's gift, giving love free voice
    Embrace your honor, honor that wise choice-
    You are of braver heart, red is your blood
    You are red-man, Native pride your soul floods
    You hunt ancestral lands, wade tidal muds,
    There amidst tall trees, beauty of the glades
    You young lad, were of pure Native bloods made
    Spirit must stay strong, as your time soon fades
    In your dreams, you sail to paradise isles
    You race through countryside for miles and miles
    Live, soon your tribes will become sad exiles-
    As you dare the great beast to your soul fight
    Search mysteries that hide truth out of sight
    Know that same hungry beast, will your race smite!

    Alas! Fate's wicked hands, its evil sends.
    Stopping mercy, from which Heaven descends.

    I beg mother earth, this carnage avert
    Heal dark souls of men, stop such coming hurts
    Are we not brothers, made from the same dirt
    Do we all not cry, and same red blood bleed
    Are we all not sprung from weak mortal seeds
    In pain, do we not, to same Father plead-
    Will violence and death, your greed absolve
    Can we seek to our differences solve
    Must destruction serve as means to evolve,
    Is what will be gained, great treasure to you
    Shall we learn to love same sky's glowing blues
    Share life's blessings, paying brotherly dues
    Walk lit paths, love flowering meadows too-
    Live serving peace and discover anew
    Enjoy a rainbow's hope, its many hues?

    Alas! Fate's wicked hands, its evil sends.
    Stopping mercy, from which Heaven descends.

    Robert J. Lindley, 9-07-2020
    Rhyme, Phhillip Freneau,Tribute poem,
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog- An experiment in attempting to stir my muse this morning...
    Blog Posted:9/10/2020 7:38:00 AM
    Going to try an experiment. I will now post a poem that was written by Edgar Allan Poe.
    And then start to compose a tribute poem, with that poem in mind and the thoughts it inspired.
    Point is to see how fast I can finish one that is by my standards good enough to pass muster.

    Poe's poem--one that is not dark....


    To The River

    by Edgar Allan Poe
    (published 1829)


    Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
    Of crystal, wandering water,
    Thou art an emblem of the glow
    Of beauty -- the unhidden heart --
    The playful maziness of art
    In old Alberto's daughter;

    But when within thy wave she looks --
    Which glistens then, and trembles --
    Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
    Her worshipper resembles;
    For in my heart, as in thy stream,
    Her image deeply lies --
    The heart which trembles at the beam
    Of her soul-searching eyes.

    ***********************************

    My tribute offering,
    Times started composing, 8:58am
    finished 9:24am
    This went far faster and came out far better than
    i ever thought it could or would.--Tyr


    O'Bright Star, Thy Bright Gleamings True Hearts See

    O'Bright star! may thy gleam our sad hearts sate
    with splendor of glow, quench our dying thirsts
    Thy exquisite beauty, mankind debates
    as well, bold shining depths of thy starbursts.

    Why gift that grin, that Chesire cat-eye glow.
    As riddle we are never meant to know?

    O'Bright star! will thy eternal gaze blink
    a galactic voice thy wisdom imparts
    Are thy infinite gleamings - wine to drink,
    as a soothing balm to heal broken hearts,
    Shall ever thy distant voice our souls hear
    or will we destroy earth with hate and fear?

    May we in our pitifully sad state.
    Reach, touch thy heart's glow, to truly relate?

    Robert J. Lindley, 9/10/2020
    Sonnet, A tribute poem,
    To Poe's, poem, titled,
    "To The River"..


    ****************************************

    The Genius of “The Tell-Tale Heart” BY STEPHEN KING
    When I do public appearances, I’m often-no, always-asked what scares
    me. The answer is almost everything, from express elevators in very tall
    buildings to the idea of a zealot1 loose with a suitcase nuke in one of the great
    cities of the world. But if the question is refined to “What works of fiction have
    scared you?” two always leap immediately to mind: Lord of the Flies by William
    Golding and “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe.
    Most people know that Poe invented the modern detective story (Conan
    Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is in many ways the same detective as Poe’s C.
    Auguste Dupin), but few are aware that he also created the first work of
    criminal sociopathy2 in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a story originally published in
    1843. Many great crime writers of the twentieth century, from Jim Thompson
    and John D. MacDonald to Thomas Harris (who in Hannibal Lecter may have
    created the greatest sociopath of them all), are the children of Poe.
    The details of the story are still gruesome enough to produce nightmares
    (the cutting up of the victim’s body, for instance, or the old man’s one dying
    shriek), but the terror that lingers-and the story’s genius-lies in the superficially
    reasonable voice of the narrator. He is never named, and that is fitting,
    because we have no idea how he picked his victim, or what drove him to the
    crime. Oh, we know what he says: it was the old man’s gruesomely veiled eye.
    But of course, Jeffrey Dahmer said he wanted to create zombies, and the Son
    of Sam at one point claimed his dog told him to do it. We understand, I think,
    that psychopaths3 offer such wacky motivations because they are as helpless
    as the rest of us to explain their terrible acts.
    This is, above all, a persuasive story of lunacy, and Poe never offers any
    real explanations. Nor has to. The narrator’s cheerful laughter (“A tub had
    caught… all [the blood]-ha! ha!”) tells us all we need to know. Here is a
    creature who looks like a man but who really belongs to another species.
    That’s scary. What elevates this story beyond merely scary and into the realm
    of genius, though, is that Poe foresaw the darkness of generations far beyond
    his own.
    Ours, for instance.
    1: zealot- fanatic, enthusiast
    2: sociopathy- having antisocial behavior
    3: pychopaths- persons suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent
    social behavior.
    B
    its founder, Thomas Jefferson. It had strict rules against gambling, horses, guns, tobacco and alcohol, but
    these rules were generally ignored. Jefferson had enacted a system of student self-government, allowing
    students to choose their own studies, make their own arrangements for boarding, and report all wrongdoing
    to the faculty. The unique system was still in chaos, and there was a high dropout rate. During his time there,
    Poe lost touch with Royster and also became estranged from his foster father over gambling debts. Poe
    claimed that Allan had not given him sufficient money to register for classes, purchase texts, and procure
    and furnish a dormitory. Allan did send additional money and clothes, but Poe's debts increased. Poe gave
    up on the university after a year, and, not feeling welcome in Richmond, especially when he learned that his
    sweetheart Royster had married Alexander Shelton, he traveled to Boston in April 1827, sustaining himself
    with odd jobs as a clerk and newspaper writer. At some point he started using the pseudonym Henri Le
    Rennet.
    Death
    On October 3, 1849, Poe was found on the streets of Baltimore delirious, "in great distress, and... in need of
    immediate assistance", according to the man who found him, Joseph W. Walker. He was taken to the
    Washington College Hospital, where he died on Sunday, October 7, 1849, at 5:00 in the morning. Poe was
    never coherent long enough to explain how he came to be in his dire condition, and, oddly, was wearing
    clothes that were not his own. Poe is said to have repeatedly called out the name "Reynolds" on the night
    before his death, though it is unclear to whom he was referring. Some sources say Poe's final words were
    "Lord help my poor soul." All medical records, including his death certificate, have been lost. Newspapers at
    the time reported Poe's death as "congestion of the brain" or "cerebral inflammation", common euphemisms
    for deaths from disreputable causes such as alcoholism. The actual cause of death remains a mystery; from
    as early as 1872, cooping was commonly believed to have been the cause, and speculation has included
    delirium tremens, heart disease, epilepsy, syphilis, meningeal inflammation, cholera and rabies.
    Griswold's "Memoir"
    The day Edgar Allan Poe was buried, a long obituary appeared in the New York Tribune signed "Ludwig". It
    was soon published throughout the country. The piece began, "Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in
    Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it."
    "Ludwig" was soon identified as Rufus Wilmot Griswold, an editor, critic and anthologist who had borne a
    grudge against Poe since 1842. Griswold somehow became Poe's literary executor and attempted to
    destroy his enemy's reputation after his death.
    Rufus Griswold wrote a biographical article of Poe called "Memoir of the Author", which he included in an
    1850 volume of the collected works. Griswold depicted Poe as a depraved, drunk, drug-addled madman and
    included Poe's letters as evidence. Many of his claims were either lies or distorted half-truths. For example,
    it is now known that Poe was not a drug addict. Griswold's book was denounced by those who knew Poe
    well, but it became a popularly accepted one. This occurred in part because it was the only full biography
    available and was widely reprinted and in part because readers thrilled at the thought of reading works by an
    "evil" man. Letters that Griswold presented as proof of this depiction of Poe were later revealed as forgeries.
    Literary Style and Themes
    Genres
    Poe's best known fiction works are Gothic, a genre he followed to appease the public taste. His most
    recurring themes deal with questions of death, including its physical signs, the effects of decomposition,
    concerns of premature burial, the reanimation of the dead, and mourning. Many of his works are generally
    considered part of the dark romanticism genre, a literary reaction to transcendentalism, which Poe strongly
    disliked. He referred to followers of the movement as "Frogpondians" after the pond on Boston Common and
    ridiculed their writings as "metaphor-run mad," lapsing into "obscurity for obscurity's sake" or "mysticism for
    mysticism's sake." Poe once wrote in a letter to Thomas Holley Chivers that he did not dislike
    Transcendentalists, "only the pretenders and sophists among them."
    Beyond horror, Poe also wrote satires, humor tales, and hoaxes. For comic effect, he used irony and
    ludicrous extravagance, often in an attempt to liberate the reader from cultural conformity. In fact,
    "Metzengerstein", the first story that Poe is known to have published, and his first foray into horror, was
    originally intended as a burlesque satirizing the popular genre. Poe also reinvented science fiction,
    responding in his writing to emerging technologies such as hot air balloons in "The Balloon-Hoax".
    Poe wrote much of his work using themes specifically catered for mass market tastes. To that end, his fiction
    often included elements of popular pseudosciences such as phrenology and physiognomy.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog Title , Blog on- Thomas Gray's , " Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"
    Blog Posted:9/19/2020 7:36:00 AM
    Note:
    My inspired interpretations received after reading several times
    this truly wonderful and very deep poem by Thomas Grays.
    A gift he gave to this world and one that is so widely recognized
    for its depths, truth, insight and lament about this dark world
    and its harsh, heavy cruel blows laid upon the common man. RJL

    ************************************************** *


    Inspiration, Revelation, Adaptation, With Poetic Verse

    Sonnet I

    I saw morn's soft hands stretching to touch bright moonlight
    Tis but a fleeting blink betwixt man's death and birth
    Dark unknowing is why we so oft fear the night
    In that abject blindness, fail to see life's true worth
    Alas! Such are sorrows of mankind's constant plight
    That feeds malignant swellings of darkness on earth;
    Those of ancient times, of distant long dead yesterdays
    Will one day from that deepest of slumbers arise
    Long hidden from flown days and nights, world's weeping grays
    Be reborn with no thoughts of world's previous lies.
    As earth spins, sounding its constant evolving beats
    We blind to light's truth, continue our foolish acts
    Racing onward counting our coins and useless feats
    Life came from light's truth, not so-called man-made facts.

    Sonnet II

    I that thought to profit, see beyond mortal veil
    Having never measured truest rectitude of life
    In my epic quest, the highest of mountains scale
    In youth, blind to sad flowing storms of mortal strife
    Alas! We that in our darkness refuse to see
    Oft face raging storms that seem to forever swirl
    Not realizing, Love's blessings are given free
    To counter lightning bolts world's malevolence hurls.
    I that foolishly thought to defeat that we die
    Later learned truth that our vanity denies
    We are lost because we believe world's greatest lie
    That we were once roaming beasts beneath earthen skies
    By our own greatness became gods of divine might
    Free to do as we please, revel in our delights.

    Sonnet III

    In June, when wondering winds our hearts so lighten
    I have found eager bubbling brooks streaming along
    Summer's morn setting up to day gaily brighten
    Nature gifting beauty, songbirds gifting sweet song
    Across flowering meadows, busy bees flying
    Life many treasures so beautifully sharing
    Time to live, not sadly ponder mortal dying
    For truest of joy depends on our loving caring
    There rests much more happiness in sincere kindness
    And sweeter breath within Love's soft touch inspiring
    Eyes to truly see, welcome defeat of blindness
    Rather than worldly conflicts and daily sparring
    To satisfy our fleshly dreams and deep desires
    Lets embrace light's divine truth that never expires.

    Robert J. Lindley, 9/15, 9/16, 9/17
    Sonnet trilogy,
    ( When Blessed Gifts Are Suddenly Given To One Pleading )

    Note -- This new creation, was composed in three days of
    each day my reading of Thomas Gray's magnificent poem,
    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, that was first
    published in 1751...
    .

    ********


    (1.)

    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
    BY THOMAS GRAY


    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
    The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
    And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
    And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
    Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
    Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
    The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
    The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
    No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

    For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
    No children run to lisp their sire's return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

    Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
    How jocund did they drive their team afield!
    How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

    Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
    Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
    The short and simple annals of the poor.

    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
    Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

    Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
    If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
    Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
    The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

    Can storied urn or animated bust
    Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
    Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
    Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

    Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
    Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
    Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
    Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

    But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
    Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
    Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
    And froze the genial current of the soul.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
    The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
    Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
    The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
    Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
    Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

    Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
    The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
    And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

    Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
    Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
    And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

    The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
    To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
    Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
    With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

    Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
    Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
    Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
    They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

    Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
    Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
    With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
    Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

    Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
    The place of fame and elegy supply:
    And many a holy text around she strews,
    That teach the rustic moralist to die.

    For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
    This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
    Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
    Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

    On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
    Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
    Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
    Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

    For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
    Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
    If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

    Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
    "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
    Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
    To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

    "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
    That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
    His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
    And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

    "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
    Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
    Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
    Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

    "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
    Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
    Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
    Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

    "The next with dirges due in sad array
    Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
    Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
    Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

    THE EPITAPH
    Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
    A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
    Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
    And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

    Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
    Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
    He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
    He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

    No farther seek his merits to disclose,
    Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
    (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
    The bosom of his Father and his God.

    ******************************************
    (2.)
    Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard Summary


    Thanks for exploring this SuperSummary Plot Summary of “Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard” by Thomas Gray. A modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality study guides that feature detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, quotes, and essay topics.

    Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard is a Restoration Period poem by Thomas Gray. An elegy, by strict definition, is usually a lament for the dead. Gray’s version of an elegy is slightly different—he writes about the inevitability and hollowness of death in general, instead of mourning one person. At first, the poem reflects on death in a mostly detached way, as someone who is resigned to death’s outcome. Yet, the epitaph he writes for himself at the end of the poem, reflects a fear of death. Elegy is a renowned English poem, regarded as one of the best of the time, and arguably of all time. It was popular when it was first written and was reprinted many times.

    The speaker begins the poem by saying he is in a churchyard with a bell tolling for the end of the day, he uses this image as a metaphor for life and death. He describes the scenery around him, speaking of the sun setting, the church tower covered in ivy, and an owl hooting. He then focuses on the graveyard around him. He speaks of the men who are in the graves and how they were probably simple village folk. They’re dead and nothing will wake these villagers, not a rooster’s call in the morning, not twittering birds, and not the smell of the morning breeze. The speaker also laments that life’s pleasures will no longer be felt by those buried in the graveyard, especially emphasizing the joys of family life.

    The dead villagers probably were farmers, and the speaker discusses how they probably enjoyed farming. He warns that although it sounds like a simple life, no one should mock a good honest working life as these men once had. No one should mock these men because in death, these arbitrary ideas of being wealthy or high-born do not matter. Fancy grave markers will not bring someone back to life, and neither will the honor of being well born.


    The speaker then wonders about those in the graveyard who are buried in unmarked graves. He wonders if they were full of passion, or if they were potential world leaders who left the world too soon. He wonders if one was a beautiful lyre player, whose music could bring the lyre to life—literally. He laments for the poor villagers, as they were never able to learn much about the world. He uses metaphors to describe their lack of education, that knowledge as a book was never open to them, and that poverty froze their souls.

    He speaks of those in the graveyard as unsung heroes, comparing them to gems that are never found, or flowers that bloom and are never seen. He wonders if some of the residents of the graveyard could have been historically relevant, but unable to shine. One could have been a mute Milton, the author of Paradise Lost; or one could have been like John Hampden, a politician who openly opposed the policies of King Charles. Alas, the speaker mourns again that these villagers were poor and unable to make their mark on the world.

    But because they were poor, they were also innocent. They were not capable of regicide or being merciless. They were also incapable of hiding the truth, meaning they were honest with the world. The speaker notes that these people, because they were poor, will not even be remembered negatively. They lived far from cities and lived in the quiet. At least their graves are protected by simple grave markers, so people do not desecrate their burial places by accident. And the graves have enough meaning to the speaker that he will stop and reflect on their lives. The speaker wonders who leaves earth in death without wondering what they are leaving behind. Even the poor leave behind loved ones, and they need someone in their life who is pious to close their eyes upon death.

    The speaker begins to wonder about himself in relation to these graveyard inhabitants. Even if these deceased villagers were poor, at least the speaker is elegizing them now. The speaker wonders who will elegize him. Maybe it will be someone like him, a kindred spirit, who wandered into the same graveyard. Possibly some grey-haired farmer, who would remark on having seen the speaker rush through the dew covered grass to watch the sun set on the meadow. The speaker continues to think of the imagined farmer, who would remember the speaker luxuriating on the strangely grown roots of a tree, while he watched the babbling brook. Maybe the farmer would think of how the speaker wandered through the woods looking pale with scorn and sorrow. Possibly the speaker was anxious, or was a victim of unrequited love. The speaker wonders if the farmer will notice he’s gone one day, that the farmer did not see him by his favorite tree, near the meadow, or by the woods. He speaks of his own funeral dirges and finally of his own epitaph.

    In the speaker’s own epitaph, he remarks that he has died, unknown to both fame and fortune, as in he never became famous and was not well-born. But at least he was full of knowledge—he was a scholar and a poet. Yet oftentimes, the speaker could become depressed. But he was bighearted and sincere, so heaven paid him back for his good qualities by giving him a friend. His other good and bad qualities do not matter anymore, so he instructs people not to go looking for them since he hopes for a good life in heaven with God.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog: How Poets Gift Hope To This All Too Dark World
    Blog Posted:10/19/2020 5:19:00 PM
    Blog: How Poets Gift Hope To This All Too Dark World

    ***
    (1.)
    https://poets.org/poem/ulysses
    Ulysses
    Alfred Lord Tennyson - 1809-1892


    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
    I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
    Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
    Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
    Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known—cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honored of them all,—
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am a part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
    Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
    For ever and for ever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
    As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains; but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    To whom I leave the scepter and the isle,
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
    This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and through soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
    There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
    Death closes all; but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
    The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Though much is taken, much abides; and though
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

    This poem is in the public domain.

    ***
    (2.)

    “Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
    ---- BY EMILY DICKINSON

    “Hope” is the thing with feathers -
    That perches in the soul -
    And sings the tune without the words -
    And never stops - at all -

    And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
    And sore must be the storm -
    That could abash the little Bird
    That kept so many warm -

    I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
    And on the strangest Sea -
    Yet - never - in Extremity,
    It asked a crumb - of me.

    ***

    This Truth, All Must Find Dear Hope They Embrace

    This Earth, this accumulation of life
    a great mass of air, water, rock, and soil
    a dark world, where danger cuts like a knife
    man gets bread and water by daily toil.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This World, its beauty that rivals its dark
    a great mass of people, buildings and cars
    a cauldron of darkness violently stark
    all made from explosions of long-dead stars.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This Life, its joys heartaches, and epic pains
    a mystery, a climb, race against time
    a harvest of precious golden grains
    romance, verses born of sweet rhythmic rhyme.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    This Truth, all must find dear hope they embrace
    a revelation, a desire, love
    a newfound world of divinely sent grace
    giftings of manna from Heaven above.

    O' but those pleasures of heart-sweet dreams cast.
    Calm, peaceful sea, ship sailing at full mast.

    Robert J. Lindley, 10-14-2020
    Rhyme( When The Days Have Flown, Into That Mystical Mist )
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog:
    Of Byron, Keats And Shelley, A Few Words


    (1.)

    Of Byron And A Visit I Once Had

    Alas! Youth and its joy away has flown
    I wake at the break of day with a groan
    the smooth mirror no lies dares to tell
    truth seen by these eyes rings loud sorrow's bell
    vanity's praise to break illusion's spell
    embedding with red-hot fires of hell
    life gifted then sets black to steal away
    from morn's breath, dawning beauty each new day.

    What would Byron think, sit to write of this
    would he ink. 'tis not a true poet's kiss"
    or with flowing quill cast a prudent doubt
    and see it as dishwater to toss out
    with utter contempt, write a ballad true
    of his hate of modern poetry too
    how love and life are joy and so much more
    with wisdom our souls, sweeter verse implore?

    Once his ghost came to my writing station
    grand it was, birthing sweet jubilation
    begged I for its golden verse to give
    pleading to sift my verses through its sieve
    Aghast the ghost eyed me with deep contempt
    asking why should my poor state it exempt
    I was then rebuked with the harshest scorn
    noting I had never its sad death mourn!

    Alas! Youth and its joy away has flown
    I wake at the break of day with a groan
    the smooth mirror no lies dares to tell
    truth seen by these eyes rings loud sorrow's bell
    vanity's praise to break illusion's spell
    embedding with red-hot fires of hell
    life gifted then sets black to steal away
    from morn's breath, dawning beauty each new day.

    (2.)

    Of Keats And A Vivid Dream I Once Had

    I unmask this monster invading me
    the horrific horrors sent, ten times three
    that vanishes the sweet breath of her kiss
    pains, denying even love's greatest bliss
    with its eyeless guile and quick blackened bite
    conquering sun's glow, gifting dread of night
    closing the chasm between dear life and death
    stealing away my last gasping of breath.

    I gaze at its immense power and girth
    and how it roams so freely about earth
    with its dagger claws and sharp fangs to match
    and what ease it had this sad soul to catch
    now it sought to toss me like a small boy
    as a child does its newest little toy
    and I helpless to its dark-might withstand
    while hitting with my hard clenching left hand!

    O to dream this dark nightmare ever ends
    with hope, cherish my family and friends
    yet in this gloom darkness tightens its grip
    farther into the black-pit this soul slips
    begging light's glow, I pray for a reprieve
    from wicked beast sent to slay and deceive
    my last hope, her true love will see me through
    and the thought of good fortune I am due.

    I unmask this monster invading me
    the horrific horrors sent, ten times three
    by light's divine glow cast from far above
    her smiling face beaming down its deep love!

    (3.)
    Of Shelley And Bright Light Once Set Aglow

    Mankind, immortality as its goal
    yet sadly blind to that much-needed light
    of weakening flesh, intemperate soul
    bold feaster of sinful darkened delights
    as a flood crushes in its raging wake
    and oft buries deeply it's new-drowned dead
    man moralizes how to everything take
    claiming no wrongs in their soft-laden-heads!

    Of life, its tribulations, and its pains
    and the stealing of whatever one may
    bad means nothing if great enough the gains
    of wealth and pleasure, he takes anyway
    for what is a man but creature low born
    made of earth and both feet of oozing mud
    from God's light far as a heart can be torn
    and with deep blackened venom in his blood!

    Alas! Dare man pleads for mercy divine
    while seeking happiness and golden gifts
    as it stomps virgin grapes ripe on the vine
    always crying this and that shall be mine!

    Robert J. Lindley, 10-21-2020
    Rhyme, ( What An Eager Quill And A Fine Muse Once Gifted )
    Three poems in tribute to three golden poets of old...


    1.
    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/lord-byron

    2.
    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-keats

    3.
    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...bysshe-shelley
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Blog, - Whispers From The Past, A Poet's Lost Songs
    Blog Posted:1/13/2021 3:55:00 AM
    Blog, - Whispers From The Past, A Poet's Lost Songs



    When The Darkness, Its Destructive Song Sings



    In the hours of lonely despair

    The angry clock striking sad tones,

    Erosion of life, stale salt air

    There the graveyard of bleached bones

    Fleeing whispers of the lost loss

    In the distance a dying moon

    A swamp of red decaying moss

    Reality- end comes too soon.



    A dreamscape of terrors and pain

    Trees that eat the welcomed host,

    Heart and legs bound by rusty chains

    Joy fled with yesterday's pale ghost

    My hands that decapitate me

    Soul that cries to dawn's coming breath

    A desert of abhorrent seas

    Reality- dark tides of death.



    In the hours of lonely despair

    The angry clock striking sad tones,

    Erosion of life, stale salt air

    There the graveyard of bleached bones

    Fleeing whispers of the lost loss

    In the distance a dying moon

    A swamp of red decaying moss

    Reality- end comes too soon.



    R J Lindley, Dec 3rd 1973

    Rhyme, ( Wherein The Sad Reality Paints With Its Sister Fate )

    Poem- One


    Note-

    In the shadows the Raven calls

    Its blacken voice a chilling breeze

    Whispers emerge from bloody walls

    My heart and soul begins to freeze

    That call, a hard bone-chilling dirge

    There I hanging from a cliff fall

    Into the dark bottomless sea surge

    Raven repeats, its ceaseless calls



    **********



    Dark Melody Sung By The Old Wizen Poet



    Behind the walls, in caverns deep,

    Down empty halls, innocence sleeps,

    Hungry so begs, for life's true bread,

    But Fate must first birth its dark dread.



    Dreading and shedding, future sings,

    Of life, love and infinite things,

    While weeping soul cries for its rest,

    Dark world sets its usual tests.



    Therein the old wicked rub lies,

    Seeding hope under dying skies,

    Hunger weds its undying thirst,

    As Fate cries, but I must drink first.



    Behind the walls, in caverns deep,

    Down empty halls, innocence sleeps,

    Hungry so begs, for life's true bread,

    But Fate must first birth its dark dread.



    R J Lindley, Dec 4th, 1973

    Rhyme, ( Wherein The Sad Reality Paints With Its Sister Fate )

    Poem- Two


    Note-

    In the shadows the Raven calls

    Its blacken voice a chilling breeze

    Whispers emerge from bloody walls

    My heart and soul begins to freeze

    That call, a hard bone-chilling dirge

    There I hanging from a cliff fall

    Into the dark bottomless sea surge

    Raven repeats, its ceaseless calls



    **********



    The Poet, Dark Verses Long Ago Sung



    There lies within the dreaded black,

    Life derailed on broken track,

    A little sorrow if you will,

    That which mere wishing cannot kill.



    Time and life echoes the same song,

    World controls the fast racing throng,

    Bob and Jane found true wedded bliss,

    Then Fate gifted its fatal kiss.



    The eternal past cannot change,

    Universe is an open range,

    Dare frost to glisten all the more,

    And hope to soon find joyful shores.



    There lies within the dreaded black,

    Life derailed on broken track,

    A little sorrow if you will,

    That which mere wishing cannot kill.



    R J Lindley, Dec 5th, 1973

    Rhyme, ( Wherein The Sad Reality Paints With Its Sister Fate )

    Poem- Three


    Note-

    In the shadows the Raven calls

    Its blacken voice a chilling breeze

    Whispers emerge from bloody walls

    My heart and soul begins to freeze

    That call, a hard bone-chilling dirge

    There I hanging from a cliff fall

    Into the dark bottomless sea surge

    Raven repeats, its ceaseless calls
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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