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    The Living Lost

    ------------------------------ by William Cullen Bryant


    Matron! the children of whose love,
    Each to his grave, in youth have passed,
    And now the mould is heaped above
    The dearest and the last!
    Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
    Before the wedding flowers are pale!
    Ye deem the human heart endures
    No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

    Yet there are pangs of keener wo,
    Of which the sufferers never speak,
    Nor to the world's cold pity show
    The tears that scald the cheek,
    Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
    And guilt of those they shrink to name,
    Whom once they loved, with cheerful will,
    And love, though fallen and branded, still.

    Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead,
    Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
    And graceful are the tears ye shed,
    And honoured ye who grieve.

    The praise of those who sleep in earth,
    The pleasant memory of their worth,
    The hope to meet when life is past,
    Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

    But ye, who for the living lost
    That agony in secret bear,
    Who shall with soothing words accost
    The strength of your despair?
    Grief for your sake is scorn for them
    Whom ye lament and all condemn;
    And o'er the world of spirits lies
    A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    But ye, who for the living lost
    That agony in secret bear,
    Who shall with soothing words accost
    The strength of your despair?
    Grief for your sake is scorn for them
    Whom ye lament and all condemn;
    And o'er the world of spirits lies
    A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.
    ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

    Offered as a tribute to this nation(so fitting) , sadly now, being sent to its just reward. -Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 07-13-2015 at 10:52 PM.
    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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    Lost Love
    --------------------------------------by Robert Graves

    His eyes are quickened so with grief,
    He can watch a grass or leaf
    Every instant grow; he can
    Clearly through a flint wall see,
    Or watch the startled spirit flee
    From the throat of a dead man.
    Across two counties he can hear
    And catch your words before you speak.
    The woodlouse or the maggot's weak
    Clamour rings in his sad ear,
    And noise so slight it would surpass
    Credence--drinking sound of grass,
    Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
    Chumbling holes in cloth;
    The groan of ants who undertake
    Gigantic loads for honour's sake
    (Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin);
    Whir of spiders when they spin,
    And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
    Of idle grubs and flies.
    This man is quickened so with grief,
    He wanders god-like or like thief
    Inside and out, below, above,
    Without relief seeking lost love.
    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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    I

    Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
    His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
    So little trouble had been given of late;
    Not that the place by any means was full,
    But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
    The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
    And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
    At sea — which drew most souls another way.

    II

    The angels all were singing out of tune,
    And hoarse with having little else to do,
    Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
    Or curb a runaway young star or two,
    Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
    Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
    Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
    As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

    III

    The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
    Finding their charges past all care below;
    Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
    Save the recording angel's black bureau;
    Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
    With such rapidity of vice and woe,
    That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
    And yet was in arrear of human ills.

    IV

    His business so augmented of late years,
    That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
    (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
    For some resource to turn himself about,
    And claim the help of his celestial peers,
    To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
    By the increased demand for his remarks:
    Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

    V

    This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
    And yet they had even then enough to do,
    So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
    So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
    Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,
    Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
    They threw their pens down in divine disgust —
    The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

    VI

    This by the way: 'tis not mine to record
    What angels shrink Wrom: ZAAFXISHJEXXIMQZUIVO
    On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,
    So surfeited with the infernal revel:
    Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,
    It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.
    (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion —
    'Tis, that he has both generals in reveration.)

    VII

    Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,
    Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
    And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease,
    With nothing but new names subscribed upon't;
    'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,
    'With seven heads and ten horns,' and all in front,
    Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born
    Less formidable in the head than horn.

    VIII

    In the first year of freedom's second dawn
    Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
    Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn
    Left him nor mental nor external sun:
    A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,
    A worse king never left a realm undone!
    He died — but left his subjects still behind,
    One half as mad — and t'other no less blind.

    IX

    He died! his death made no great stir on earth:
    His burial made some pomp; there was profusion
    Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth
    Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion.
    For these things may be bought at their true worth;
    Of elegy there was the due infusion —
    Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,
    Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

    X

    Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all
    The fools who flack's to swell or see the show,
    Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
    Made the attraction, and the black the woe.
    There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall;
    And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
    It seamed the mockery of hell to fold
    The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

    XI

    So mix his body with the dust! It might
    Return to what it must far sooner, were
    The natural compound left alone to fight
    Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;
    But the unnatural balsams merely blight
    What nature made him at his birth, as bare
    As the mere million's base unmarried clay —
    Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

    XII

    He's dead — and upper earth with him has done;
    He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,
    Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
    For him, unless he left a German will:
    But where's the proctor who will ask his son?
    In whom his qualities are reigning still,
    Except that household virtue, most uncommon,
    Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

    XIII

    'God save the king!' It is a large economy
    In God to save the like; but if he will
    Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
    Of those who think damnation better still:
    I hardly know too if not quite alone am I
    In this small hope of bettering future ill
    By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,
    The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

    XIV

    I know this is unpopular; I know
    'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damned
    For hoping no one else may ever be so;
    I know my catechism; I know we're caromed
    With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;
    I know that all save England's church have shamm'd,
    And that the other twice two hundred churches
    And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase.

    XV

    God help us all! God help me too! I am,
    God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
    And not a whit more difficult to damn,
    Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,
    Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;
    Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish,
    As one day will be that immortal fry
    Of almost everybody born to die.

    XVI

    Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
    And nodded o'er his keys; when, lo! there came
    A wondrous noise he had not heard of late —
    A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;
    In short, a roar of things extremely great,
    Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;
    But he, with first a start and then a wink,
    Said, 'There's another star gone out, I think!'

    XVII

    But ere he could return to his repose,
    A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes —
    At which St. Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his hose:
    'Saint porter,' said the angel, 'prithee rise!'
    Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows
    An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes;
    To which the saint replied, 'Well, what's the matter?
    'Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?'

    XVIII

    'No,' quoth the cherub; 'George the Third is dead.'
    'And who is George the Third?' replied the apostle;
    'What George? what Third?' 'The king of England,' said
    The angel. 'Well, he won't find kings to jostle
    Him on his way; but does he wear his head?
    Because the last we saw here had a tussle,
    And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces,
    Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

    XIX

    'He was, if I remember, king of France;
    That head of his, which could not keep a crown
    On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance
    A claim to those of martyrs — like my own:
    If I had had my sword, as I had once
    When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
    But having but my keys, and not my brand,
    I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

    XX

    'And then he set up such a headless howl,
    That all the saints came out and took him in;
    And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl;
    That fellow Paul— the parvenů! The skin
    Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
    In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin,
    So as to make a martyr, never sped
    Better than did this weak and wooden head.

    XXI

    'But had it come up here upon its shoulders,
    There would have been a different tale to tell;
    The fellow-feeling in the saint's beholders
    Seems to have acted on them like a spell,
    And so this very foolish head heaven solders
    Back on its trunk: it may be very well,
    And seems the custom here to overthrow
    Whatever has been wisely done below.'

    XXII

    The angel answer'd, 'Peter! do not pout:
    The king who comes has head and all entire,
    And never knew much what it was about —
    He did as doth the puppet — by its wire,
    And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:
    My business and your own is not to inquire
    Into such matters, but to mind our cue —
    Which is to act as we are bid to do.'

    XXIII

    While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,
    Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,
    Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan
    Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,
    Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man
    With an old soul, and both extremely blind,
    Halted before the gate, and in his shroud
    Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud.

    XXIV

    But bringing up the rear of this bright host
    A Spirit of a different aspect waves
    His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast
    Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;
    His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd;
    Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved
    Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
    And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

    XXV

    As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate
    Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin,
    With such a glance of supernatural hate,
    As made Saint Peter wish himself within;
    He potter'd with his keys at a great rate,
    And sweated through his apostolic skin:
    Of course his perspiration was but ichor,
    Or some such other spiritual liquor.

    XXIV

    The very cherubs huddled all together,
    Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt
    A tingling to the top of every feather,
    And form'd a circle like Orion's belt
    Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither
    His guards had led him, though they gently dealt
    With royal manes (for by many stories,
    And true, we learn the angels all are Tories.)

    XXVII

    As things were in this posture, the gate flew
    Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
    Flung over space an universal hue
    Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges
    Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new
    Aurora borealis spread its fringes
    O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,
    By Captain Parry's crew, in 'Melville's Sound.'

    XXVIII

    And from the gate thrown open issued beaming
    A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,
    Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming
    Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight:
    My poor comparisons must needs be teeming
    With earthly likenesses, for here the night
    Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving
    Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

    XXIX

    'Twas the archangel Michael; all men know
    The make of angels and archangels, since
    There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show,
    From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince;
    There also are some altar-pieces, though
    I really can't say that they much evince
    One's inner notions of immortal spirits;
    But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.

    XXX

    Michael flew forth in glory and in good;
    A goodly work of him from whom all glory
    And good arise; the portal past — he stood;
    Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary —
    (I say young, begging to be understood
    By looks, not years; and should be very sorry
    To state, they were not older than St. Peter,
    But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.

    XXXI

    The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before
    That arch-angelic Hierarch, the first
    Of essences angelical, who wore
    The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed
    Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core
    No thought, save for his Master's service, durst
    Intrude, however glorified and high;
    He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

    XXXII

    He and the sombre, silent Spirit met —
    They knew each other both for good and ill;
    Such was their power, that neither could forget
    His former friend and future foe; but still
    There was a high, immortal, proud regret
    In either's eye, as if 'twere less their will
    Than destiny to make the eternal years
    Their date of war, and their 'champ clos' the spheres.

    XXXIII

    But here they were in neutral space: we know
    From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay
    A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;
    And that the 'sons of God', like those of clay,
    Must keep him company; and we might show
    From the same book, in how polite a way
    The dialogue is held between the Powers
    Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours.

    XXXIV

    And this is not a theologic tract,
    To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,
    If Job be allegory or a fact,
    But a true narrative; and thus I pick
    From out the whole but such and such an act
    As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.
    'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
    And accurate as any other vision.

    XXXV

    The spirits were in neutral space, before
    The gates of heaven; like eastern thresholds is
    The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er,
    And souls despatch'd to that world or to this;
    And therefore Michael and the other wore
    A civil aspect: though they did not kiss,
    Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness
    There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness.

    XXXVI

    The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau,
    But with a graceful Oriental bend,
    Pressing one radiant arm just where below
    The heart in good men is supposed to tend;
    He turn'd as to an equal, not too low,
    But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend
    With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian
    Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.

    XXXVII

    He merely bent his diabolic brow
    An instant; and then raising it, he stood
    In act to assert his right or wrong, and show
    Cause why King George by no means could or should
    Make out a case to be exempt from woe
    Eternal, more than other kings, endued
    With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions,
    Who long have 'paved hell with their good intentions.'

    XXXVIII

    Michael began: 'What wouldst thou with this man,
    Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill
    Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,
    That thou cans't claim him? Speak! and do thy will,
    If it be just: if in this earthly span
    He hath been greatly failing to fulfil
    His duties as a king and mortal, say,
    And he is thine; if not, let him have way.'

    XXXIX

    'Michael!' replied the Prince of Air, 'even here,
    Before the Gate of him thou servest, must
    I claim my subject: and will make appear
    That as he was my worshipper in dust,
    So shall he be in spirit, although dear
    To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust
    Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne
    He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone.

    XL

    'Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was,
    Once, more thy master's: but I triumph not
    In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas!
    Need he thou servest envy me my lot:
    With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass
    In worship round him, he may have forgot
    Yon weak creation of such paltry things;
    I think few worth damnation save their kings, —

    XLI

    'And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to
    Assert my right as lord: and even had
    I such an inclination, 'twere (as you
    Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad,
    That hell has nothing better left to do
    Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad
    And evil by their own internal curse,
    Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse.

    XLII

    'Look to the earth, I said, and say again:
    When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm
    Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign,
    The world and he both wore a different form,
    And must of earth and all the watery plain
    Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm
    His isles had floated on the abyss of time;
    For the rough virtues chose them for their clime.

    XLIII

    'He came to his sceptre young: he leaves it old:
    Look to the state in which he found his realm,
    And left it; and his annals too behold,
    How to a minion first he gave the helm;
    How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,
    The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
    The meanest of hearts; and for the rest, but glance
    Thine eye along America and France.

    XLIV

    'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last
    (I have the workmen safe); but as a tool
    So let him be consumed. From out the past
    Of ages, since mankind have known the rule
    Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd
    Of sin and slaughter — from the Cćsar's school,
    Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign
    More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain.

    XLV

    'He ever warr'd with freedom and the free:
    Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes,
    So that they utter'd the word "Liberty!"
    Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose
    History was ever stain'd as his will be
    With national and individual woes?
    I grant his household abstinence; I grant
    His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want;

    XLVI

    'I know he was a constant consort; own
    He was a decent sire, and middling lord.
    All this is much, and most upon a throne;
    As temperance, if at Apicius' board,
    Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown.
    I grant him all the kindest can accord;
    And this was well for him, but not for those
    Millions who found him what oppression chose.

    XLVII

    'The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans
    Beneath what he and his prepared, if not
    Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones
    To all his vices, without what begot
    Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones
    Who sleep, or despots who have not forgot
    A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake
    Upon the thrones of earth; but let them quake!

    XLVIII

    'Five millions of the primitive, who hold
    The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored
    A part of that vast all they held of old, —
    Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord,
    Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold
    Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd
    The foe to Catholic participation
    In all the license of a Christian nation.

    XLIX

    'True! he allow'd them to pray God; but as
    A consequence of prayer, refused the law
    Which would have placed them upon the same base
    With those who did not hold the saints in awe.'
    But here Saint Peter started from his place,
    And cried, 'You may the prisoner withdraw:
    Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph,
    While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself!

    L

    'Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange
    My office (and his no sinecure)
    Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range
    The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!'
    'Saint!' replied Satan, 'you do well to avenge
    The wrongs he made your satellites endure;
    And if to this exchange you should be given,
    I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven!'

    LI

    Here Michael interposed: 'Good saint! and devil!
    Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion.
    Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil!
    Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression,
    And condescension to the vulgar's level:
    Event saints sometimes forget themselves in session.
    Have you got more to say?' — 'No.' — If you please
    I'll trouble you to call your witnesses.'

    LII

    Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand,
    Which stirr'd with its electric qualities
    Clouds farther off than we can understand,
    Although we find him sometimes in our skies;
    Infernal thunder shook both sea and land
    In all the planets, and hell's batteries
    Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions
    As one of Satan's most sublime inventions.

    LIII

    This was a signal unto such damn'd souls
    As have the privilege of their damnation
    Extended far beyond the mere controls
    Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station
    Is theirs particularly in the rolls
    Of hell assign'd; but where their inclination
    Or business carries them in search of game,
    They may range freely — being damn'd the same.

    LIV

    They're proud of this — as very well they may,
    It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key
    Stuck in their loins; or like to an 'entré'
    Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry.
    I borrow my comparisons from clay,
    Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be
    Offended with such base low likenesses;
    We know their posts are nobler far than these.

    LV

    When the great signal ran from heaven to hell —
    About ten million times the distance reckon'd
    From our sun to its earth, as we can tell
    How much time it takes up, even to a second,
    For every ray that travels to dispel
    The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd,
    The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year,
    If that the summer is not too severe;

    LVI

    I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute;
    I know the solar beams take up more time
    Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it;
    But then their telegraph is less sublime,
    And if they ran a race, they would not win it
    'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime.
    The sun takes up some years for every ray
    To reach its goal — the devil not half a day.

    LVII

    Upon the verge of space, about the size
    Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd
    (I've seen a something like it in the skies
    In the Ćgean, ere a squall); it near'd,
    And growing bigger, took another guise;
    Like an aërial ship it tack'd, and steer'd,
    Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar
    Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; —

    LVIII

    But take your choice): and then it grew a cloud;
    And so it was — a cloud of witnesses.
    But such a cloud! No land e'er saw a crowd
    Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these;
    They shadow'd with their myriads space; their loud
    And varied cries were like those of wild geese
    (If nations may be liken'd to a goose),
    And realised the phrase of 'hell broke loose.'

    LIX

    Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,
    Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore:
    There Paddy brogued, 'By Jasus!' — 'What's your wull?'
    The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French ghost swore
    In certain terms I shan't translate in full,
    As the first coachman will; and 'midst the roar,
    The voice of Jonathan was heard to express,
    'Our president is going to war, I guess.'

    LX

    Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane;
    In short, an universal shoal of shades,
    From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain,
    Of all climes and professions, years and trades,
    Ready to swear against the good king's reign,
    Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades:
    All summon'd by this grand 'subpoena,' to
    Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you.

    LXI

    When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale,
    As angels can; next, like Italian twilight,
    He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail,
    Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight
    In some old abbey, or a trout not stale,
    Or distant lightning on the horizon by night,
    Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review
    Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue.

    LXII

    Then he address'd himself to Satan: 'Why —
    My good old friend, for such I deem you, though
    Our different parties make us fight so shy,
    I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe;
    Our difference is political, and I
    Trust that, whatever may occur below,
    You know my great respect for you; and this
    Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss —

    LXIII

    'Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse
    My call for witnesses? I did not mean
    That you should half of earth and hell produce;
    'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean
    True testimonies are enough: we lose
    Our time, nay, our eternity, between
    The accusation and defence: if we
    Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality.'

    LXIV

    Satan replied, 'To me the matter is
    Indifferent, in a personal point of view;
    I can have fifty better souls than this
    With far less trouble than we have gone through
    Already; and I merely argued his
    Late majesty of Britain's case with you
    Upon a point of form: you may dispose
    Of him; I've kings enough below, God knows!'

    LXV

    Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd 'multifaced'
    By multo-scribbling Southey). 'Then we'll call
    One or two persons of the myriads placed
    Around our congress, and dispense with all
    The rest,' quoth Michael: 'Who may be so graced
    As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall
    It be?' Then Satan answer'd, 'There are many;
    But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any.'

    LXVI

    A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite
    Upon the instant started from the throng,
    Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite;
    For all the fashions of the flesh stick long
    By people in the next world; where unite
    All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong,
    From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat,
    Almost as scanty, of days less remote.

    LXVII

    The spirit look'd around upon the crowds
    Assembled, and exclaim'd, 'My friends of all
    The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds;
    So let's to business: why this general call?
    If those are freeholders I see in shrouds,
    And 'tis for an election that they bawl,
    Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat!
    Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?'

    LXVIII

    'Sir,' replied Michael, 'you mistake; these things
    Are of a former life, and what we do
    Above is more august; to judge of kings
    Is the tribunal met: so now you know.'
    'Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,'
    Said Wilkes, 'are cherubs; and that soul below
    Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind
    A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?'

    LXIX

    'He is what you behold him, and his doom
    Depends upon his deeds,' the Angel said;
    'If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb
    Give licence to the humblest beggar's head
    To lift itself against the loftiest.' — 'Some,'
    Said Wilkes, 'don't wait to see them laid in lead,
    For such a liberty — and I, for one,
    Have told them what I though beneath the sun.'

    LXX

    'Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast
    To urge against him,' said the Archangel. 'Why,'
    Replied the spirit, 'since old scores are past,
    Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I.
    Besides, I beat him hollow at the last,
    With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky
    I don't like ripping up old stories, since
    His conduct was but natural in a prince.

    LXXI

    'Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress
    A poor unlucky devil without a shilling;
    But then I blame the man himself much less
    Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling
    To see him punish'd here for their excess,
    Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in
    Their place below: for me, I have forgiven,
    And vote his "habeas corpus" into heaven.'

    LXXII

    'Wilkes,' said the Devil, 'I understand all this;
    You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,
    And seem to think it would not be amiss
    To grow a whole one on the other side
    Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his
    Reign is concluded; whatso'er betide,
    He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labor,
    For at the best he will be but your neighbour.

    LXXIII

    'However, I knew what to think of it,
    When I beheld you in your jesting way,
    Flitting and whispering round about the spit
    Where Belial, upon duty for the day,
    With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt,
    His pupil; I knew what to think, I say:
    That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills;
    I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bills.

    LXXIV

    'Call Junius!' From the crowd a shadow stalk'd,
    And at the same there was a general squeeze,
    So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd
    In comfort, at their own aërial ease,
    But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd,
    As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,
    Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder,
    Or like a human colic, which is sadder.

    LXXV

    The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure,
    That look'd as it had been a shade on earth;
    Quick in it motions, with an air of vigour,
    But nought to mar its breeding or its birth;
    Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger,
    With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth;
    But as you gazed upon its features, they
    Changed every instant — to what, none could say.

    LXXVI

    The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less
    Could they distinguish whose the features were;
    The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess;
    They varied like a dream — now here, now there;
    And several people swore from out the press
    They knew him perfectly; and one could swear
    He was his father: upon which another
    Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother:

    LXXVII

    Another, that he was a duke, or a knight,
    An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,
    A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight
    Mysterious changed his countenance at least
    As oft as they their minds; though in full sight
    He stood, the puzzle only was increased;
    The man was a phantasmagoria in
    Himself — he was so volatile and thin.

    LXXVIII

    The moment that you had pronounce him one,
    Presto! his face change'd and he was another;
    And when that change was hardly well put on,
    It varied, till I don't think his own mother
    (If that he had a mother) would her son
    Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other;
    Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task,
    At this epistolary 'Iron Mask.'

    LXXIX

    For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem —
    'Three gentlemen at once' (as sagely says
    Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem
    That he was not even one; now many rays
    Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam
    Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days:
    Now Burke, now Tooke he grew to people's fancies,
    And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.

    LXXX

    I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own;
    I never let it out till now, for fear
    Of doing people harm about the throne,
    And injuring some minister or peer,
    On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown;
    It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear!
    'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call
    Was really, truly, nobody at all.

    LXXXI

    I don't see wherefore letters should not be
    Written without hands, since we daily view
    Them written without heads; and books, we see,
    Are fill'd as well without the latter too:
    And really till we fix on somebody
    For certain sure to claim them as his due,
    Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother
    The world to say if there be mouth or author.

    LXXXII

    'And who and what art thou?' the Archangel said.
    'For that you may consult my title-page,'
    Replied this mighty shadow of a shade:
    'If I have kept my secret half an age,
    I scarce shall tell it now.' — 'Canst thou upbraid,'
    Continued Michael, 'George Rex, or allege
    Aught further?' Junius answer'd, 'You had better
    First ask him for his answer to my letter:

    LXXXIII

    'My charges upon record will outlast
    The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.'
    'Repent'st thou not,' said Michael, 'of some past
    Exaggeration? something which may doom
    Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast
    Too bitter — is it not so? — in thy gloom
    Of passion?' — 'Passion!' cried the phantom dim,
    'I loved my country, and I hated him.

    LXXXIV

    'What I have written, I have written: let
    The rest be on his head or mine!' So spoke
    Old 'Nominis Umbra'; and while speaking yet,
    Away he melted in celestial smoke.
    Then Satan said to Michael, 'Don't forget
    To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke,
    And Franklin;' — but at this time was heard
    A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd.

    LXXXV

    At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid
    Of cherubim appointed to that post,
    The devil Asmodeus to the circle made
    His way, and look'd as if his journey cost
    Some trouble. When his burden down he laid,
    'What's this?' cried Michael; 'why, 'tis not a ghost?'
    'I know it,' quoth the incubus; 'but he
    Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.

    LXXXVI

    'Confound the renegado! I have sprain'd
    My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think
    Some of his works about his neck were chain'd.
    But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink
    Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),
    I saw a taper, far below me, wink,
    And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel —
    No less on history than the Holy Bible.

    LXXXVII

    'The former is the devil's scripture, and
    The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair
    Belongs to all of us, you understand.
    I snatch'd him up just as you see him there,
    And brought him off for sentence out of hand:
    I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air —
    At least a quarter it can hardly be:
    I dare say that his wife is still at tea.'

    LXXXVIII

    Here Satan said, 'I know this man of old,
    And have expected him for some time here;
    A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,
    Or more conceited in his petty sphere:
    But surely it was not worth while to fold
    Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear:
    We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored
    With carriage) coming of his own accord.

    LXXXIX

    'But since he's here, let's see what he has done.'
    'Done!' cried Asmodeus, 'he anticipates
    The very business you are now upon,
    And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates,
    Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,
    When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?'
    'Let's hear,' quoth Michael, 'what he has to say;
    You know we're bound to that in every way.'

    XC

    Now the bard, glad to get an audience which
    By no means oft was his case below,
    Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch
    His voice into that awful note of woe
    To all unhappy hearers within reach
    Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow;
    But stuck fast with his first hexameter,
    Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

    XCI

    But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd
    Into recitative, in great dismay
    Both cherubim and seraphim were heard
    To murmur loudly through their long array:
    And Michael rose ere he could get a word
    Of all his founder'd verses under way.
    And cried, 'For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere best —
    Non Di, non homines —- you know the rest.'

    XCII

    A general bustle spread throughout the throng.
    Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation;
    The angels had of course enough of song
    When upon service; and the generation
    Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long
    Before, to profit by a new occasion;
    The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, 'What! What!
    Pye come again? No more — no more of that!'

    XCIII

    The tumult grew; an universal cough
    Convulsed the skies, as during a debate
    When Castlereagh has been up long enough
    (Before he was first minister of state,
    I mean — the slaves hear now); some cried 'off, off!'
    As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,
    The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose
    (Himself an author) only for his prose.

    XCIV

    The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave;
    A good deal like a vulture in the face,
    With a hook nose and a hawk'd eye, which gave
    A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace
    To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,
    Was by no means so ugly as his case;
    But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be,
    Quite a poetic felony, 'de se.'

    XCV

    Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise
    With one still greater, as is yet the mode
    On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,
    Which now and then will make a slight inroad
    Upon decorous silence, few will twice
    Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd;
    And now the bard could plead his own bad cause,
    With all the attitudes of self-applause.

    XCVI

    He said — (I only give the heads) — he said,
    He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way
    Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,
    Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay
    Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
    And take up rather more time than a day,
    To name his works — he would but cite a few —
    'Wat Tyler' — 'Rhymes on Blenheim' — 'Waterloo.'

    XCVII

    He had written praises of a regicide:
    He had written praises of all kings whatever;
    He had written for republics far and wide;
    And then against them bitterer than ever;
    For pantisocracy he once had cried
    Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever;
    Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin —
    Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin.

    XCVIII

    He had sung against all battles, and again
    In their high praise and glory; he had call'd
    Reviewing (1)'the ungentle craft,' and then
    Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd —
    Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men
    By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd:
    He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,
    And more of both than anybody knows.

    XCIX

    He had written Wesley's life: — here turning round
    To Satan, 'Sir, I'm ready to write yours,
    In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
    With notes and preface, all that most allures
    The pious purchaser; and there's no ground
    For fear, for I can choose my own reviews:
    So let me have the proper documents,
    That I may add you to my other saints.'

    C

    Satan bow'd, and was silent. 'Well, if you,
    With amiable modesty, decline
    My offer, what says Michael? There are few
    Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine.
    Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
    As it once was, but I would make you shine
    Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
    Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

    CI

    'But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision!
    Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall
    Judge with my judgment, and by my decision
    Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.
    I settle all these things by intuition,
    Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,
    Like King Alfonso(2). When I thus see double,
    I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.'

    CII

    He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
    Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,
    Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
    He read the first three lines of the contents;
    But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
    Had vanish'd, with variety of scents,
    Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,
    Like lightning, off from his 'melodious twang.' (3)

    CIII

    Those grand heroics acted as a spell:
    The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions;
    The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell;
    The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions —
    (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell,
    And I leave every man to his opinions);
    Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo!
    His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

    CIV

    Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known
    For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,
    And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down;
    Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,
    Into his lake, for there he did not drown;
    A different web being by the Destinies
    Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er
    Reform shall happen either here or there.

    CV

    He first sank to the bottom - like his works,
    But soon rose to the surface — like himself;
    For all corrupted things are bouy'd like corks,(4)
    By their own rottenness, light as an elf,
    Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks,
    It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,
    In his own den, to scrawl some 'Life' or 'Vision,'
    As Welborn says — 'the devil turn'd precisian.'

    CVI

    As for the rest, to come to the conclusion
    Of this true dream, the telescope is gone
    Which kept my optics free from all delusion,
    And show'd me what I in my turn have shown;
    All I saw farther, in the last confusion,
    Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one;
    And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,
    I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

    George Gordon Byron-The Vision Of Judgment
    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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    Quote Originally Posted by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot View Post
    I

    Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate: ....
    This is incredible and GRATE, Robert!
    Indifferent alike to praise or blame
    Give heed, O Muse, but to the voice Divine
    Fearing not injury, nor seeking fame,
    Nor casting pearls to swine.
    (A.Pushkin)

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    In Memory of Rupert Brooke
    ------------------------------------------------by Joyce Kilmer

    In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
    His body lies that was so fair and young.
    His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
    His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
    But let no cloud of lamentation be
    Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
    We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
    We keep the vision of his chivalry.
    So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,
    Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
    To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
    With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
    And David rests beneath Eternal wings,
    Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.
    --------------------------------------------------------------------------
    In Memory of a Child
    --------------------------------------by Vachel Lindsay


    I

    The angels guide him now,
    And watch his curly head,
    And lead him in their games,
    The little boy we led.


    II

    He cannot come to harm,
    He knows more than we know,
    His light is brighter far
    Than daytime here below.


    III

    His path leads on and on,
    Through pleasant lawns and flowers,
    His brown eyes open wide
    At grass more green than ours.


    IV

    With playmates like himself,
    The shining boy will sing,
    Exploring wondrous woods,
    Sweet with eternal spring.


    V

    Yet, he is lost to us,
    Far is his path of gold,
    Far does the city seem,
    Lonely our hearts and old.
    ------------------------------------------------------
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 08-26-2015 at 07:38 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.

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    Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
    --------------------------------------------- by Andrew Barton Paterson
    You never heard tell of the story?
    Well, now, I can hardly believe!
    Never heard of the honour and glory
    Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
    But maybe you're only a Johnnie
    And don't know a horse from a hoe?
    Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
    But, really, a young un should know.
    They bred him out back on the "Never",
    His mother was Mameluke breed.
    To the front -- and then stay there - was ever
    The root of the Mameluke creed.
    He seemed to inherit their wiry
    Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
    As hard as a flint and as fiery
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.

    We ran him at many a meeting
    At crossing and gully and town,
    And nothing could give him a beating --
    At least when our money was down.
    For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
    Nor odds, though the others were fast;
    He'd race with a dogged persistence,
    And wear them all down at the last.

    At the Turon the Yattendon filly
    Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
    And we all began to look silly,
    While her crowd were starting to laugh;
    But the old horse came faster and faster,
    His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
    He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
    And won it, hands down, by a length.

    And then we swooped down on Menindie
    To run for the President's Cup;
    Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
    To them is board, lodging, and sup.
    Eye-openers they are, and their system
    Is never to suffer defeat;
    It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em
    You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat".

    We strolled down the township and found 'em
    At drinking and gaming and play;
    If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
    And betting was soon under way.
    Their horses were good uns and fit uns,
    There was plenty of cash in the town;
    They backed their own horses like Britons,
    And, Lord! how we rattled it down!

    With gladness we thought of the morrow,
    We counted our wages with glee,
    A simile homely to borrow --
    "There was plenty of milk in our tea."
    You see we were green; and we never
    Had even a thought of foul play,
    Though we well might have known that the clever
    Division would "put us away".

    Experience docet, they tell us,
    At least so I've frequently heard;
    But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows
    Were up to each move on the board:
    They got to his stall -- it is sinful
    To think what such villains will do --
    And they gave him a regular skinful
    Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.

    He munched it all night, and we found him
    Next morning as full as a hog --
    The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
    He looked like an overfed frog.
    We saw we were done like a dinner --
    The odds were a thousand to one
    Against Pardon turning up winner,
    'Twas cruel to ask him to run.

    We got to the course with our troubles,
    A crestfallen couple were we;
    And we heard the " books" calling the doubles --
    A roar like the surf of the sea.
    And over the tumult and louder
    Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!"
    Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah
    Are out on the warpath today."

    Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
    The horses in those days were stout,
    They had to run well to win money;
    I don't see such horses about.
    Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
    Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up,
    They wouldn't earn much of their damper
    In a race like the President's Cup.

    The first heat was soon set a-going;
    The Dancer went off to the front;
    The Don on his quarters was showing,
    With Pardon right out of the hunt.
    He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
    You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
    They finished all bunched, and he followed
    All lathered and dripping with sweat.

    But troubles came thicker upon us,
    For while we were rubbing him dry
    The stewards came over to warn us:
    "We hear you are running a bye!
    If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
    And win the next heat -- if he can --
    He'll earn a disqualification;
    Just think over that now, my man!"

    Our money all gone and our credit,
    Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
    And then people thought that we did it
    It really was terribly hard.
    We were objects of mirth and derision
    To folks in the lawn and the stand,
    Anf the yells of the clever division
    Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand.

    We still had a chance for the money,
    Two heats remained to be run:
    If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
    The clever division were done.
    And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
    His sickness was passing away,
    So we went to the post for the second
    And principal heat of the day.

    They're off and away with a rattle,
    Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
    And right at the back of the battle
    He followed them under the whip.
    They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
    He dropped right away from the pack;
    I tell you it made me feel sickly
    To see the blue jacket fall back.

    Our very last hope had departed --
    We thought the old fellow was done,
    When all of a sudden he started
    To go like a shot from a gun.
    His chances seemed slight to embolden
    Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
    We thought, "Now or never! The old un
    May reckon with some of 'em yet."

    Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
    He swept like the wind down the dip,
    And over the rise by the garden
    The jockey was done with the whip.
    The field was at sixes and sevens --
    The pace at the first had been fast --
    And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
    For Pardon was coming at last.

    And how he did come! It was splendid;
    He gained on them yards every bound,
    Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
    His girth laid right down on the ground.
    A shimmer of silk in the cedars
    As into the running they wheeled,
    And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
    For Pardon had collared the field.

    Then right through the ruck he was sailing --
    I knew that the battle was won --
    The son of Haphazard was failing,
    The Yattendon filly was done;
    He cut down The Don and The Dancer,
    He raced clean away from the mare --
    He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
    And up went my hat in the air!

    Then loud fron the lawn and the garden
    Rose offers of "Ten to one on!"
    "Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!"
    No use; all the money was gone.
    He came for the third heat light-hearted,
    A-jumping and dancing about;
    The others were done ere they started
    Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.

    He won it, and ran it much faster
    Than even the first, I believe;
    Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
    He showed 'em the method of travel --
    The boy sat still as a stone --
    They never could see him for gravel;
    He came in hard-held, and alone.

    * * * * * * *

    But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow
    Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
    When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
    And go where the racehorses go.
    I don't want no harping nor singing --
    Such things with my style don't agree;
    Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
    There's music sufficient for me.

    And surely the thoroughbred horses
    Will rise up again and begin
    Fresh faces on far-away courses,
    And p'raps they might let me slip in.
    It would look rather well the race-card on
    'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
    "Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
    Blue halo, white body and wings."

    And if they have racing hereafter,
    (And who is to say they will not?)
    When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
    Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
    As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
    He'll rush to the front, I believe;
    And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
    For Pardon, the son of Reprieve
    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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    Quote Originally Posted by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot View Post
    Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
    --------------------------------------------- by Andrew Barton Paterson
    You never heard tell of the story?
    Well, now, I can hardly believe!
    Never heard of the honour and glory
    Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
    But maybe you're only a Johnnie
    And don't know a horse from a hoe?
    Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
    But, really, a young un should know.
    They bred him out back on the "Never",
    His mother was Mameluke breed.
    To the front -- and then stay there - was ever
    The root of the Mameluke creed.
    He seemed to inherit their wiry
    Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
    As hard as a flint and as fiery
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.

    We ran him at many a meeting
    At crossing and gully and town,
    And nothing could give him a beating --
    At least when our money was down.
    For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
    Nor odds, though the others were fast;
    He'd race with a dogged persistence,
    And wear them all down at the last.

    At the Turon the Yattendon filly
    Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
    And we all began to look silly,
    While her crowd were starting to laugh;
    But the old horse came faster and faster,
    His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
    He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
    And won it, hands down, by a length.

    And then we swooped down on Menindie
    To run for the President's Cup;
    Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
    To them is board, lodging, and sup.
    Eye-openers they are, and their system
    Is never to suffer defeat;
    It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em
    You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat".

    We strolled down the township and found 'em
    At drinking and gaming and play;
    If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
    And betting was soon under way.
    Their horses were good uns and fit uns,
    There was plenty of cash in the town;
    They backed their own horses like Britons,
    And, Lord! how we rattled it down!

    With gladness we thought of the morrow,
    We counted our wages with glee,
    A simile homely to borrow --
    "There was plenty of milk in our tea."
    You see we were green; and we never
    Had even a thought of foul play,
    Though we well might have known that the clever
    Division would "put us away".

    Experience docet, they tell us,
    At least so I've frequently heard;
    But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows
    Were up to each move on the board:
    They got to his stall -- it is sinful
    To think what such villains will do --
    And they gave him a regular skinful
    Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.

    He munched it all night, and we found him
    Next morning as full as a hog --
    The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
    He looked like an overfed frog.
    We saw we were done like a dinner --
    The odds were a thousand to one
    Against Pardon turning up winner,
    'Twas cruel to ask him to run.

    We got to the course with our troubles,
    A crestfallen couple were we;
    And we heard the " books" calling the doubles --
    A roar like the surf of the sea.
    And over the tumult and louder
    Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!"
    Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah
    Are out on the warpath today."

    Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
    The horses in those days were stout,
    They had to run well to win money;
    I don't see such horses about.
    Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
    Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up,
    They wouldn't earn much of their damper
    In a race like the President's Cup.

    The first heat was soon set a-going;
    The Dancer went off to the front;
    The Don on his quarters was showing,
    With Pardon right out of the hunt.
    He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
    You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
    They finished all bunched, and he followed
    All lathered and dripping with sweat.

    But troubles came thicker upon us,
    For while we were rubbing him dry
    The stewards came over to warn us:
    "We hear you are running a bye!
    If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
    And win the next heat -- if he can --
    He'll earn a disqualification;
    Just think over that now, my man!"

    Our money all gone and our credit,
    Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
    And then people thought that we did it
    It really was terribly hard.
    We were objects of mirth and derision
    To folks in the lawn and the stand,
    Anf the yells of the clever division
    Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand.

    We still had a chance for the money,
    Two heats remained to be run:
    If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
    The clever division were done.
    And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
    His sickness was passing away,
    So we went to the post for the second
    And principal heat of the day.

    They're off and away with a rattle,
    Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
    And right at the back of the battle
    He followed them under the whip.
    They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
    He dropped right away from the pack;
    I tell you it made me feel sickly
    To see the blue jacket fall back.

    Our very last hope had departed --
    We thought the old fellow was done,
    When all of a sudden he started
    To go like a shot from a gun.
    His chances seemed slight to embolden
    Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
    We thought, "Now or never! The old un
    May reckon with some of 'em yet."

    Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
    He swept like the wind down the dip,
    And over the rise by the garden
    The jockey was done with the whip.
    The field was at sixes and sevens --
    The pace at the first had been fast --
    And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
    For Pardon was coming at last.

    And how he did come! It was splendid;
    He gained on them yards every bound,
    Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
    His girth laid right down on the ground.
    A shimmer of silk in the cedars
    As into the running they wheeled,
    And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
    For Pardon had collared the field.

    Then right through the ruck he was sailing --
    I knew that the battle was won --
    The son of Haphazard was failing,
    The Yattendon filly was done;
    He cut down The Don and The Dancer,
    He raced clean away from the mare --
    He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
    And up went my hat in the air!

    Then loud fron the lawn and the garden
    Rose offers of "Ten to one on!"
    "Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!"
    No use; all the money was gone.
    He came for the third heat light-hearted,
    A-jumping and dancing about;
    The others were done ere they started
    Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.

    He won it, and ran it much faster
    Than even the first, I believe;
    Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
    Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
    He showed 'em the method of travel --
    The boy sat still as a stone --
    They never could see him for gravel;
    He came in hard-held, and alone.

    * * * * * * *

    But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow
    Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
    When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
    And go where the racehorses go.
    I don't want no harping nor singing --
    Such things with my style don't agree;
    Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
    There's music sufficient for me.

    And surely the thoroughbred horses
    Will rise up again and begin
    Fresh faces on far-away courses,
    And p'raps they might let me slip in.
    It would look rather well the race-card on
    'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
    "Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
    Blue halo, white body and wings."

    And if they have racing hereafter,
    (And who is to say they will not?)
    When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
    Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
    As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
    He'll rush to the front, I believe;
    And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
    For Pardon, the son of Reprieve
    Really like this one ... I wonder if people who are not familiar with horse racing can even understand.
    If the freedom of speech is taken away
    then dumb and silent we may be led,
    like sheep to the slaughter.


    George Washington (1732-1799) First President of the USA.

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    Was There A Time
    ------------------------------------- by Dylan Thomas

    Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
    In children's circuses could stay their troubles?
    There was a time they could cry over books,
    But time has set its maggot on their track.
    Under the arc of the sky they are unsafe.
    What's never known is safest in this life.
    Under the skysigns they who have no arms
    Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
    Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best.

    ----------------------------------------------****
    ----------------------------------------------****

    To Ireland In The Coming Times
    ----------------------------------------------by William Butler Yeats

    Know, that I would accounted be
    True brother of a company
    That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
    Ballad and story, rann and song;
    Nor be I any less of them,
    Because the red-rose-bordered hem
    Of her, whose history began
    Before God made the angelic clan,
    Trails all about the written page.
    When Time began to rant and rage
    The measure of her flying feet
    Made Ireland's heart hegin to beat;
    And Time bade all his candles flare
    To light a measure here and there;
    And may the thoughts of Ireland brood
    Upon a measured guietude.
    Nor may I less be counted one
    With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
    Because, to him who ponders well,
    My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
    Of things discovered in the deep,
    Where only body's laid asleep.
    For the elemental creatures go
    About my table to and fro,
    That hurry from unmeasured mind
    To rant and rage in flood and wind,
    Yet he who treads in measured ways
    May surely barter gaze for gaze.
    Man ever journeys on with them
    After the red-rose-bordered hem.
    Ah, faerics, dancing under the moon,
    A Druid land, a Druid tune.!
    While still I may, I write for you
    The love I lived, the dream I knew.
    From our birthday, until we die,
    Is but the winking of an eye;
    And we, our singing and our love,
    What measurer Time has lit above,
    And all benighted things that go
    About my table to and fro,
    Are passing on to where may be,
    In truth's consuming ecstasy,
    No place for love and dream at all;
    For God goes by with white footfall.
    I cast my heart into my rhymes,
    That you, in the dim coming times,
    May know how my heart went with them
    After the red-rose-bordered hem.
    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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    The River of Life
    ---------------------------------by Thomas Campbell


    The more we live, more brief appear
    Our life's succeeding stages;
    A day to childhood seems a year,
    And years like passing ages.

    The gladsome current of our youth,
    Ere passion yet disorders,
    Steals lingering like a river smooth
    Along its grassy borders.

    But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
    And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
    Ye stars, that measure life to man,
    Why seem your courses quicker?

    When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
    And life itself is vapid,
    Why, as we reach the Falls of Death
    Feel we its tide more rapid?

    It may be strange—yet who would change
    Time's course to slower speeding,
    When one by one our friends have gone,
    And left our bosoms bleeding?

    Heaven gives our years of fading strength
    Indemnifying fleetness;
    And those of youth, a seeming length,
    Proportion'd to their sweetness.
    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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    THE EYES OF BEAUTY
    ---------------------------------------------- by Charles Baudelaire

    YOU are a sky of autumn, pale and rose;
    But all the sea of sadness in my blood
    Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose,
    Salt with the memory of the bitter flood.

    In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er,
    That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate
    By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more
    Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.

    It is a ruin where the jackals rest,
    And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay--
    A perfume swims about your naked breast!

    Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way!
    With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared
    Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared!
    -----------------------------------------------------
    -----------------------------------------------------
    Do not fret if you do not get the gist of this great poem.
    As one must usually be familiar with this Archaic language to comprehend most these old poems.
    I am (40+ years of reading such), and even then quite often I have to read such poems two or three times.. --Tyr
    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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    Mid-ocean in War-time
    -----------------------------------by Joyce Kilmer
    (For My Mother)

    The fragile splendour of the level sea,
    The moon's serene and silver-veiled face,
    Make of this vessel an enchanted place
    Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
    Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be
    Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,
    And the old stars, in their unending race,
    Shall heed and envy young humanity.
    And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
    These waters blush a strange and awful red.
    Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
    Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
    And these stars smile their immemorial way
    On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!
    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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    Demon And Beast
    ------------------------------------------------- by William Butler Yeats

    For certain minutes at the least
    That crafty demon and that loud beast
    That plague me day and night
    Ran out of my sight;
    Though I had long perned in the gyre,
    Between my hatred and desire.
    I saw my freedom won
    And all laugh in the sun.

    The glittering eyes in a death's head
    Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
    Welcome, and the Ormondes all
    Nodded upon the wall,
    And even Strafford smiled as though
    It made him happier to know
    I understood his plan.
    Now that the loud beast ran
    There was no portrait in the Gallery
    But beckoned to sweet company,
    For all men's thoughts grew clear
    Being dear as mine are dear.

    But soon a tear-drop started up,
    For aimless joy had made me stop
    Beside the little lake
    To watch a white gull take
    A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
    Now gyring down and perning there
    He splashed where an absurd
    Portly green-pated bird
    Shook off the water from his back;
    Being no more demoniac
    A stupid happy creature
    Could rouse my whole nature.

    Yet I am certain as can be
    That every natural victory
    Belongs to beast or demon,
    That never yet had freeman
    Right mastery of natural things,
    And that mere growing old, that brings
    Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
    Yet have no dearer thought
    Than that I may find out a way
    To make it linger half a day.

    O what a sweetness strayed
    Through barren Thebaid,
    Or by the Mareotic sea
    When that exultant Anthony
    And twice a thousand more
    Starved upon the shore
    And withered to a bag of bones!
    What had the Caesars but their thrones?
    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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