There are no athiests in foxholes.
quote by William T. Cummings
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No one has been barred on account of his race from fighting or dying for America, there are no white or colored signs on the foxholes or graveyards of battle.
quote by John F. Kennedy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Storms In Our Lives
do not fear the storms
they will always be there
set by time
they follow the cycle of life
and all so temporary
when the damage is done
we will still be there
to repair
when the sun is up again
when the sky is as blue as the sea
we shall learn how to play again
to live and survive
to have fun
to laugh to sing to dance
and when the storms come again
we dig foxholes
where we hide our dreams and aspirations....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To the Trench
Through shell-holes,
puddles of mud,
they trudge.
Over frozen
men in foxholes
they stumble.
Rats dart whistling across the distances.
Dead fingers rain down
& tap on rotting doors.
Signal-rockets,
corpse-lanterns…
To the ditch, to the ditch.
poem by Ernst Toller
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A Song
He is only a poet
He has no name, no wealth
Just words and words unsaid,
His words and poems unread
And I think he's silly
His stupid ideas who need it?
.
But I think it's unfair
Pastors fly on private jets
Leaders lie to their subjects
Hungry children can't be fed.
Religion had caused a strife
Everyday brothers lose their lives
Bigots should be chained
Agnostics, not insane
Athiests should be educated,
Another God, frabicated.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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A Tsonnet
How can we ever comprehend or care,
as bystanders who question all we see?
Discouraged by the lack of logic there,
within the cause of each catastrophe.
Is Nature now the weapon of the gods?
What sacrifice could this be offered for?
The athiests and theists are at odds
on how this reinforces faith, once more.
A random act of nature or a test,
designed to rally each religion's strength?
Regardless, on the ground they do their best,
as humans show they'll go to any length...
we'll put aside these trivial affairs..
compassion shouldn't catch us unawares?
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Sketching My Face From A Mirror
using a ballpoint pen i sketch my face
from the mirror
looking carefully on every line of my face
i let my pen run tracing
every year
of my past stopping
on some pores and hairs and moles
marking some
points of emptiness and hiding places
and foxholes
and burial grounds
and long boulevards
and tunnels
and plains and green fields and deserts
and mountains
they are all on my face
my eyes looking at my eyes
not completely
with disgust
the parameters and contours
of my past
on such a beautiful face as this
how can i ever fail
the next time
around
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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More Than?
more than speech reason
love contempt
A circuit of days
A round of drinks
A collection of letters
Words well said
More than a knee jerk reaction
An insidious reply
The automatic pen of an artist
A wave goodbye
Not waving but drowning?
A brain in a jar for arts sake
A fake tan a botoxed face
A stretch of words in a desert place
A name a place a star sign
More than a body in a bed
A closed eye
A doctrine on belief
An athiests reply
More than a grain of sand
A head full of dreams
A dandelion head blown into the wind
A particle of dust
A molecule of sky
More than, a you, an I
More than all imaginings
Oh what a piece of work is man
More, much more than this?
poem by Yvette Smith
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Be Ready, It Is Coming
sad truths bring you some preludes
so you can hone your ambivalent reactions
so you can have a little refinement
when the real part of grieving gets inside
your skin deep down into the pores and
flesh reverberating into the very mesh of
your rattling bones
nature gives you a rehearsal
over and over again until you are bored with sorrow
until it does not affect you anymore
until you have no word for it
except dignified acceptance
the hours are well regimented like soldiers prepared for war
and the days are like empty boats accommodating a lot of free passengers
now do not panic, keep your chin up, do not be overwhelmed
for soon
grief shall come as a typhoon
sorrow like a year of drought
your rivers shall run dry
your deep wells shall turn out to be shallow foxholes
your homes of comfort shattered into pieces of wood
drifting in the strong currents of the winds
of change.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Monologue #5
they will read.
these bald men, with suspenders for their eggs.
these bearded men who smell like dry soil from the desert.
do you know that smell?
i know.
they will wonder, what is this nitwit trying to say?
a mole. a transformation. into a rock, a haven for scorpions.
they will put their pointing finger to their chins.
silence.
contemplation.
dim lights.
beer. so much beer to fill their brains with.
foam.
i am waiting. i am famous now. they are making me the object
of their discussion.
but it will be hurting, they will bombard me with their own
shortcomings.
how they fail. how they stumble in their pride.
they dig their foxholes for defenses.
their children do not know their names.
their mothers are still looking for their
umbilical cords.
for a while they will be drunk
some will dance naked, and their bodies are not good to look at.
ugly.
i vomit. i make the room smell like
the manger where the famous baby was born.
this the place for a beginning.
i do wish them dead. they are needed.
the world will be horrible without them.
i am shaken.
and finally i arrive at the conclusion
that after all, with all of them,
all drunk and lost and
hurting,
life is still worth living.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nobody Loves Us
Nine times fined
Never mind
Things can only improve
We are just stood here
Waiting for the next great wound
And we just cant wait to make more mistakes
And to fluff our breaks, and to stuff our faces with cake
All in all, imagine this :
Nobody loves us
Dab-hands at trouble
With four days of stubble, we are
Never loosen the grip on our hand
Call us home
Kiss our cheeks
Nobody loves us
So we ... oh ... we tend to please ourselves
People think all we do
Is lie around and think of how
Rich wed be if we didnt think
Life could improve
And we just cant wait to make more mistakes
And we just cant wait till the whole thing blows up in our face
Call us home
Kiss our cheeks
Nobody loves us
Dab-hands at trouble
With four days of stubble, we are
So, never loosen the grip on our hand
Call us home
Make our tea
Nobody loves us
So we ... oh ... we tend to please ourselves
Call us home
Tuck us in
Nobody wants us
Dreamers and schemers
All pie-eyed, and bog-eyed, and cross-eyed
Oh, never loosen the grip on our hand
Whack us, then
Hug us hard
Nobody loves us
So we ... oh ... we tend to please ourselves
And we just cant stress, oh, how more the mess
And complete distress wont make much difference to us
Sing us our
Favourite song
Nobody loves us
Born-again athiests
Practising troublemakers
Make us our
Favourite jam
Nobody loves us
Useless and shiftless
And jobless
But were all yours
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Happening Within
there is something in us that grows
into a complication,
the sophistication of the labyrinths that
we create in every word and line,
it used to be just a simple house with
one door without walls and ceiling
a theater for the dance of the wind
and the fireflies & perhaps
one window and a little patio to appease the senses
of simplicity
dressed like a rag doll
but it can't be prevented
as time grows more hands and feet and even wings
and horns
many subways are built
secret chambers
foxholes and slaughter houses
or tea tables
restricted areas and hidden homes
and buried cemeteries
and lost treasures
that will never be found
perhaps that is our nature
and also the nature of our poetry
there is a room where we make love
and there is only one person there
name not revealed
no one has a hint
there is a kitchen where no cooking is done
for fear of smoke and fire
where firewood is taboo and where cigarette speaks
a language of puffs
like Indian warriors communicating to
themselves
in the smoke of their palms
i, myself, create signs
that are designed more to confuse
than to
make bridges
the rivers are happier
and the clouds celebrate the success of
the floating
i am into this again
this chasm between two selves
split carrot stick
that falling that is endless
that bliss that is as silent as the star at night
when you are alone
and missing no
one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trench Warfare
From trench to trench
You followed me, to speed
My penance at the midnight hour of life,
Once all was lost, and mine the greater need
You came again, to gloat, and turn the knife.
It’s always been the same
A thrust, then grief;
A few yards forward, then dig in, and damn the cost,
We worried at the borders of belief
To count advantage first, but never loss!
I can’t remember peace,
There’s never been
A time for me when war was not the game,
Each word a bullet, spat from lips that screamed;
You drank your deadly cocktails, then took aim.
‘Til I was sorely wounded,
Sick at heart,
And pounded by the mortars of your mind;
I slept in foxholes, waking with a start
To seek relief in silence, marking time.
While tanks, like thunder
Rolled across my soul
To leave their shadow-tracks upon my brain,
My thoughts were camouflaged, and left untold,
I worked at night, while you explored your pain.
I lost my way, as if
I’d ever known
The forward from the back, the bleak terrain
That you and I once conquered, then disowned
Has left me not a landmark I could claim.
And so to this, the shadow
That at night
Will beckon me toward some ancient death,
When life has lost its paltry appetite
And I, the walking wounded, give it breath.
12 February 1991
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Opposites Approach
I've fallen as I often do
for sullen eyes beckoning: and
wispy defiant vulnerabilities,
a combination I cannot resist
and you lay upon my table
this melange, you know
is both your soul
and your artifice;
but who among us
does not mix this
in our offerings
which exactly mirror
our glorious tattered histories?
Present me your soft spots
beneath your iron gloved history
and I shall kiss its velvet layer
attempting to digest
biscuit and the embedded stone
for this is Romeo and Juliette's true destiny;
surrendered love seeking to survive
in life's foxholes
too hard history and a soft stone heart
can prune prospects of love;
so we start with admixtures of both
making the hesitant best of it
and you wiser than I am
mete out stone
and vulnerability
and I spin
hero stance
hoping it might eventually
become the sensitivity
you need
granted inside
strong man stances
which belie
and countermand
sweet man essences.
This is the mix of all relationships
I surmise
because life itself
demands both
no matter
if its origins
are testosterone driven
or estrogen nurturing and
our sex I sense
will have elements of both.
With this knowledge breathing
we approach
wondering
if this mixture and contour
can and will express
and envelope us
in this our first kiss
as opposites
approach.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Nothing's Wrong aka Storms Will Come
There once was a battlefield where all was silent.
From foxholes and ditches rose the heads of men defiant.
The weathered general looked around, looked hard, looked long.
Said to his men, There's nothing wrong except there's nothing wrong.
Not long after, they found themselves pinned down,
Surrounded by the enemy. The enemy all around.
-
There's nothing wrong except there's nothing wrong.
Does everything look bright? Keep sharp, stay strong.
Cause storms will come, right when nothing's wrong.
-
It has been said that when things are bad, look up,
Cause things are sure to brighten up.
But when things are looking good, brace yourself.
Lest you start running when the rain pelts.
Friendships may be strong and good, but when the storm comes.
Then you find out what they're made of, what they become.
Watch what you promise, what you do, what you say.
Because storms will come and test you, one day.
When living on a mountain, on an endless high.
Look out, cause the fall is hard when you're up in the sky.
Those promises you make when feeling on top of it all,
Are only as good as you can deliver when you feel small.
True people aren't rated by how they're seen.
They're rated by the storms in which they've been.
The greatest tree can fall down in a storm,
Even though it was big and majestic, it's gone.
Will you hold when the fire burns?
When the cold numbs?
Will you fight on, in the thunder and hail?
Will you go on, and refuse to fail?
Will you hold true to your word?
Or are you the coward that runs before the sword?
Batten down the hatches. Remember what has been said and done.
Because storms will come....
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Body Count
All the young kids learn to dance in the combat zone
Never dared to take a chance
Goin' home alone
But it gets so very cold
When it's late at night
Leave the foxholes on their own
Do you sleep well at night?
Bodycount...feeling hot
Bodycount...keeping warm
Friends are playing with danger
They don't know where it's found
With their casual letters
It's just another chain
You've lost the innocence
That you've never found
Standing in the DMZ
Don't get turned around
Body count...feeling hot
Body count...Vietnam
It's not the game..well, it's a scar
And they won't let you wear your khakis
And your Izods anymore
You can go get shot to hell
They don't want you anymore because..
All the young kids learn to dance
In the combat zone
Never dare to take a chance
You're going home alone
Military metaphors
Are metaphors no more
Keeping up with protocol
You're dancin' off to war
Body count feeling hot
Body count Vietnam
Do you sleep well at night?
Body Count...Vietnam
They can say what they want
But you have your doubts
It's not what you've lost
It's what your without
When I ran so far
And they just turned away
I doesn't bother me by the light of day
But at night...I hear your call
Late at night...I hear your call
I saw the mirror that you broke today
I saw the ceiling falling down your way
When they looked at you, you could turn away
You didn't bother then by the light of day...you'll stay
But at night...I hear your call
Late at night...I hear your call
You said that you could turn away
I knew that you going to stay
The walls are falling all around
They pinned you down onto the ground
But at night...I hear your call
Vietnam...I hear you call
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alibi School
My pal, Jake, majored in corruption.
His final exam: a girl from the Midwest,
three weeks to dismantle eighteen years
of good parenting. High results came early
in the easy days, with the principal taking
his puff from the honor role in the bathroom.
In gym we learned how to turn our backs
on the world at once; the team
elected me captain of varsity nosebleeds.
At the prom, we parked our limousine
before doing the mandatory wind sprints;
my date's eyes were big, hazel dictionaries.
At our homecoming Jake injected the clouds
with a hero's last breath; rain on the victory parade
was greeted with cheers. The years rushed by
with their tongues hanging out. We packed
our cages and invented course work overseas.
In Guatemala, we copied back pain
for a hundred milligrams of extra credit
and proudly parachuted into sleep. In Prague
we emptied our text books and guzzled
chapters of Bohemian history. The class
kept shrinking until it was just me, passing
all the social tests. I returned to America
fluent in disaster; all the smiles I looked at
collapsed. I walked my pneumonia
up Avenue A, where inconspicuous teachers
assigned telepathic equations. My pupils
leapt from dilated chalkboards; a hundred
consecutive nights of slow, dirty arithmetic
curdled inside of me. Graduation
is an impossibility. Ditto expulsión.
I am permanently unrolled in the rambling
Lectures of insomnia. Wake in the lab
with my back against the wall. Turn: the wall
turns on me. I am the mutual friend
of enemy foxholes. It's like bowling
for hostages: exactly beyond my periphery.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
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First Anniversary
Like the vain curlings of the watery maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise,
So Man, declining always, disappears
In the weak circles of increasing years;
And his short tumults of themselves compose,
While flowing Time above his head does close.
Cromwell alone with greater vigour runs,
(Sun-like) the stages of succeeding suns:
And still the day which he doth next restore,
Is the just wonder of the day before.
Cromwell alone doth with new lustre spring,
And shines the jewel of the yearly ring.
'Tis he the force of scattered time contracts,
And in one year the work of ages acts:
While heavy monarchs make a wide return,
Longer, and more malignant than Saturn:
And though they all Platonic years should reign,
In the same posture would be found again.
Their earthy projects under ground they lay,
More slow and brittle than the China clay:
Well may they strive to leave them to their son,
For one thing never was by one king done.
Yet some more active for a frontier town,
Taken by proxy, beg a false renown;
Another triumphs at the public cost,
And will have won, if he no more have lost;
They fight by others, but in person wrong,
And only are against their subjects strong;
Their other wars seem but a feigned contèst,
This common enemy is still oppressed;
If conquerors, on them they turn their might;
If conquered, on them they wreak their spite:
They neither build the temple in their days,
Nor matter for succeeding founders raise;
Nor sacred prophecies consult within,
Much less themself to pèfect them begin;
No other care they bear of things above,
But with astrologers divine of Jove
To know how long their planet yet reprieves
From the deservéd fate their guilty lives:
Thus (image-like) an useless time they tell,
And with vain sceptre strike the hourly bell,
Nor more contribute to the state of things,
Than wooden heads unto the viol's strings.
While indefatigable Cromwell hies,
And cuts his way still nearer to the skies,
Learning a music in the region clear,
To tune this lower to that higher sphere.
So when Amphion did the lute command,
Which the god gave him, with his gentle hand,
The rougher stones, unto his measures hewed,
Danced up in order from the quarries rude;
This took a lower, that an higher place,
As he the treble altered, or the bass:
No note he struck, but a new stone was laid,
And the great work ascended while he played.
The listening structures he with wonder eyed,
And still new stops to various time applied:
Now through the strings a martial rage he throws,
And joining straight the Theban tower arose;
Then as he strokes them with a touch more sweet,
The flocking marbles in a palace meet;
But for the most the graver notes did try,
Therefore the temples reared their columns high:
Thus, ere he ceased, his sacred lute creates
Th' harmonious city of the seven gates.
Such was that wondrous order and consent,
When Cromwell tuned the ruling Instrument,
While tedious statesmen many years did hack,
Framing a liberty that still went back,
Whose numerous gorge could swallow in an hour
That island, which the sea cannot devour:
Then our Amphion issued out and sings,
And once he struck, and twice, the powerful strings.
The Commonwealth then first together came,
And each one entered in the willing frame;
All other matter yields, and may be ruled;
But who the minds of stubborn men can build?
No quarry bears a stone so hardly wrought,
Nor with such labour from its centre brought;
None to be sunk in the foundation bends,
Each in the house the highest place contends,
And each the hand that lays him will direct,
And some fall back upon the architect;
Yet all composed by his attractive song,
Into the animated city throng.
The Commonwealth does through their centres all
Draw the circumference of the public wall;
The crossest spirits here do take their part,
Fastening the contignation which they thwart;
And they, whose nature leads them to divide,
Uphold this one, and that the other side;
But the most equal still sustain the height,
And they as pillars keep the work upright,
While the resistance of opposèd minds,
The fabric (as with arches) stronger binds,
Which on the basis of a senate free,
Knit by the roof's protecting weight, agree.
When for his foot he thus a place had found,
He hurls e'er since the world about him round,
And in his several aspects, like a star,
Here shines in peace, and thither shoots in war,
While by his beams observing princes steer,
And wisely court the influence they fear.
O would they rather by his pattern won
Kiss the approaching, not yet angry Son;
And in their numbered footsteps humbly tread
The path where holy oracles do lead;
How might they under such a captain raise
The great designs kept for the latter days!
But mad with reason (so miscalled) of state
They know them not, and what they know not, hate.
Hence still they sing hosanna to the whore,
And her, whom they should massacre, adore:
But Indians, whom they would convert, subdue;
Nor teach, but traffic with, or burn the Jew.
Unhappy princes, ignorantly bred,
By malice some, by error more misled,
If gracious heaven to my life give length,
Leisure to time, and to my weaknes strength,
Then shall I once with graver accents shake
Your regal sloth, and your long slumbers wake:
Like the shrill huntsman that prevents the east,
Winding his horn to kings that chase the beast.
Till then my muse shall hollo far behind
Angelic Cromwell who outwings the wind,
And in dark nights, and in cold days alone
Pursues the monster through every throne:
Which shrinking to her Roman den impure,
Gnashes her gory teeth; nor there secure.
Hence oft I think if in some happy hour
High grace should meet in one with highest power,
And then a seasonable people still
Should bend to his, as he to heaven's will,
What we might hope, what wonderful effect
From such a wished conjuncture might reflect.
Sure, the mysterious work, where none withstand,
Would forthwith finish under such a hand:
Foreshortened time its useless course would stay,
And soon precipitate the latest day.
But a thick cloud about that morning lies,
And intercepts the beams of mortal eyes,
That 'tis the most which we determine can,
If these the times, then this must be the man.
And well he therefore does, and well has guessed,
Who in his age has always forward pressed:
And knowing not where heaven's choice may light,
Girds yet his sword, and ready stand to fight;
But men, alas, as if they nothing cared,
Look on, all unconcerned, or unprepared;
And stars still fall, and still the dragon's tail
Swinges the volumes of its horrid flail.
For the great justice that did first suspend
The world by sin, does by the same extend.
Hence that blest day still counterposèd wastes,
The ill delaying what the elected hastes;
Hence landing nature to new seas is tossed,
And good designs still with their authors lost.
And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth
A mould was chosen out of better earth;
Whose saint-like mother we did lately see
Live out an age, long as a pedigree;
That she might seem (could we the Fall dispute),
T' have smelled the blossom, and not eat the fruit;
Though none does of more lasting parents grow,
Yet never any did them honour so,
Though thou thine heart from evil still unstained,
And always hast thy tongue from fraud refrained;
Thou, who so oft through storms of thundering lead
Hast born securely thine undaunted head,
Thy breast through poniarding conspiracies,
Drawn from the sheath of lying prophecies;
Thee proof behond all other force or skill,
Our sins endanger, and shall one day kill.
How near they failed, and in thy sudden fall
At once assayed to overturn us all.
Our brutish fury struggling to be free,
Hurried thy horses while they hurried thee,
When thou hadst almost quit thy mortal cares,
And soiled in dust thy crown of silver hairs.
Let this one sorrow interweave among
The other glories of our yearly song.
Like skilful looms, which through the costly thread
Of purling ore, a shining wave do shed:
So shall the tears we on past grief employ,
Still as they trickle, glitter in our joy.
So with more modesty we may be true,
And speak, as of the dead, the praises due:
While impious men deceived with pleasure short,
On their own hopes shall find the fall retort.
But the poor beasts, wanting their noble guide,
(What could they more?) shrunk guiltily aside.
First wingèd fear transports them far away,
And leaden sorrow then their flight did stay.
See how they each his towering crest abate,
And the green grass, and their known mangers hate,
Nor through wide nostrils snuff the wanton air,
Nor their round hoofs, or curlèd manes compare;
With wandering eyes, and restless ears they stood,
And with shrill neighings asked him of the wood.
Thou, Cromwell, falling, not a stupid tree,
Or rock so savage, but it mourned for thee:
And all about was heard a panic groan,
As if that Nature's self were overthrown.
It seemed the earth did from the centre tear;
It seemed the sun was fall'n out of the sphere:
Justice obstructed lay, and reason fooled;
Courage disheartened, and religion cooled.
A dismal silence through the palace went,
And then loud shrieks the vaulted marbles rent,
Such as the dying chorus sings by turns,
And to deaf seas, and ruthless tempests mourns,
When now they sink, and now the plundering streams
Break up each deck, and rip the oaken seams.
But thee triumphant hence the fiery car,
And fiery steeds had borne out of the war,
From the low world, and thankless men above,
Unto the kingdom blest of peace and love:
We only mourned ourselves, in thine ascent,
Whom thou hadst left beneath with mantle rent.
For all delight of life thou then didst lose,
When to command, thou didst thyself dispose;
Resigning up thy privacy so dear,
To turn the headstrong people's charioteer;
For to be Cromwell was a greater thing,
Then ought below, or yet above a king:
Therefore thou rather didst thyself depress,
Yielding to rule, because it made thee less.
For neither didst thou from the first apply
Thy sober spirit unto things too high,
But in thine own fields exercised'st long,
An healthful mind within a body strong;
Till at the seventh time thou in the skies,
As a small cloud, like a man's hand, didst rise;
Then did thick mists and winds the air deform,
And down at last thou poured'st the fertile storm,
Which to the thirsty land did plenty bring,
But, though forewarned, o'ertook and wet the King.
What since he did, an higher force him pushed
Still from behind, and yet before him rushed,
Though undiscerned among the tumult blind,
Who think those high decrees by man designed.
'Twas heaven would not that his power should cease,
But walk still middle betwixt war and peace:
Choosing each stone, and poising every weight,
Trying the measures of the breadth and height;
Here pulling down, and there erecting new,
Founding a firm state by proportions true.
When Gideon so did from the war retreat,
Yet by the conquest of two kings grown great,
He on the peace extends a warlike power,
And Israel silent saw him raze the tower;
And how he Succorth's Elders durst suppress,
With thorns and briars of the wilderness.
No king might ever such a force have done;
Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his son.
Thou with the same strength, and an heart as plain,
Didst (like thine olive) still refuse to reign,
Though why should others all thy labour spoil,
And brambles be anointed with thine oil,
Whose climbing flame, without a timely stop,
Had quickly levelled every cedar's top?
Therefore first growing to thyself a law,
Th' ambitious shrubs thou in just time didst awe.
So have I seen at sea, when whirling winds,
Hurry the bark, but more the seamen's minds,
Who with mistaken course salute the sand,
And threatening rocks misapprehend for land,
While baleful Tritons to the shipwreck guide,
And corposants along the tackling slide,
The passengers all wearied out before,
Giddy, and wishing for the fatal shore,
Some lusty mate, who with more careful eye
Counted the hours, and every star did spy,
The help does from the artless steersman strain,
And doubles back unto the safer main.
What though a while they grumble discontent,
Saving himself, he does their loss prevent.
'Tis not a freedom, that where all command;
Nor tyranny, where one does them withstand:
But who of both the bounder knows to lay
Him as their father must the state obey.
Thou, and thine house (like Noah's eight) did rest,
Left by the wars' flood on the mountains' crest:
And the large vale lay subject to thy will
Which thou but as an husbandman wouldst till:
And only didst for others plant the vine
Of liberty, not drunken with its wine.
That sober liberty which men may have,
That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave:
And such as to their parents' tents do press,
May show their own, not see his nakedness.
Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage,
The shame and plague both of the land and age,
Who watched thy halting, and thy fall deride,
Rejoicing when thy foot had slipped aside,
That their new king might the fifth sceptre shake,
And make the world, by his example, quake:
Whose frantic army should they want for men
Might muster heresies, so one were ten.
What thy misfortune, they the spirit call,
And their religion only is to fall.
Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again,
Thy falling-sickness should have made thee reign,
While Feake and Simpson would in many a tome,
Have writ the comments of thy sacred foam:
For soon thou mightst have passed among their rant
Were't but for thine unmovèd tulipant;
As thou must needs have owned them of thy band
For prophecies fit to be Alcoraned.
Accursèd locusts, whom your king does spit
Out of the centre of the unbottomed pit;
Wanderers, adulterers, liars, Munster's rest,
Sorcerers, athiests, jesuits possessed;
You who the scriptures and the laws deface
With the same liberty as points and lace;
Oh race most hypocritically strict!
Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict;
Well may you act the Adam and the Eve;
Ay, and the serpent too that did deceive.
But the great captain, now the danger's o'er,
Makes you for his sake tremble one fit more;
And, to your spite, returning yet alive
Does with himself all that is good revive.
So when first man did through the morning new
See the bright sun his shining race pursue,
All day he followed with unwearied sight,
Pleased with that other world of moving light;
But thought him when he missed his setting beams,
Sunk in the hills, or plunged below the streams.
While dismal blacks hung round the universe,
And stars (like tapers) burned upon his hearse:
And owls and ravens with their screeching noise
Did make the funerals sadder by their joys.
His weeping eyes the doleful vigils keep,
Not knowing yet the night was made for sleep;
Still to the west, where he him lost, he turned,
And with such accents as despairing mourned:
`Why did mine eyes once see so bright a ray;
Or why day last no longer than a day?'
When straight the sun behind him he descried,
Smiling serenely from the further side.
So while our star that gives us light and heat,
Seemed now a long and gloomy night to threat,
Up from the other world his flame he darts,
And princes (shining through their windows) starts,
Who their suspected counsellors refuse,
And credulous ambassadors accuse.
`Is this', saith one, `the nation that we read
Spent with both wars, under a captain dead,
Yet rig a navy while we dress us late,
And ere we dine, raze and rebuild their state?
What oaken forests, and what golden mines!
What mints of men, what union of designs!
(Unless their ships, do, as their fowl proceed
Of shedding leaves, that with their ocean breed).
Theirs are not ships, but rather arks of war
And beakèd promontories sailed from far;
Of floating islands a new hatchèd nest;
A fleet of worlds, of other worlds in quest;
An hideous shoal of wood-leviathans,
Armed with three tier of brazen hurricanes,
That through the centre shoot their thundering side
And sink the earth that does at anchor ride.
What refuge to escape them can be found,
Whose watery leaguers all the world surround?
Needs must we all their tributaries be,
Whose navies hold the sluices of the sea.
The ocean is the fountain of command,
But that once took, we captives are on land.
And those that have the waters for their share,
Can quickly leave us neither earth nor air.
Yet if through these our fears could find a pass,
Through double oak, and lined with treble brass,
That one man still, although but named, alarms
More than all men, all navies, and all arms.
Him, in the day, him, in late night I dread,
And still his sword seems hanging o'er my head.
The nation had been ours, but his one soul
Moves the great bulk, and animates the whole.
He secrecy with number hath enchased,
Courage with age, maturity with haste:
The valiant's terror, riddle of the wise,
And still his falchion all our knots unties.
Where did he learn those arts that cost us dear?
Where below earth, or where above the sphere?
He seems a king by long succession born,
And yet the same to be a king does scorn.
Abroad a king he seems, and something more,
At home a subject on the equal floor.
O could I once him with our title see,
So should I hope that he might die as we.
But let them write is praise that love him best,
It grieves me sore to have thus much confessed.'
Pardon, great Prince, if thus their fear of spite
More than our love and duty do thee right.
I yield, nor further will the prize contend,
So that we both alike may miss our end:
While thou thy venerable head dost raise
As far above their malice as my praise,
And as the Angel of our commonweal,
Troubling the waters, yearly mak'st them heal.
poem by Andrew Marvell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
New Morality
From mental mists to purge a nation's eyes;
To animate the weak, unite the wise;
To trace the deep infection, that prevades
The crowded town, and taints the rural shades;
To mark how wide extends the mighty waste
O'er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;
To drive and scatter all the brood of lies,
And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;
The long arrears of ridicule to pay,
To drag reluctant Dulness back to day;
Much yet remains.--To you these themes belong,
Ye favor'd sons of virtue and of song!
Say, is the field too narrow? Are the times
Barren of folly, and devoid of crimes?
Yet, venial vices, in a milder age,
Could rouse the warmth of Pope's satiric rage;
The doting miser, and the lavish heir,
The follies, and the foibles of the fair,
Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio's thrift,
And Sappho's diamonds, with her dirty shift,
Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins;--meaner subjects fired
The keen-eyed Poet;--while the Muse inspired
Her ardent child--entwining as he sate,
His laurell'd chaplet with the thorns of hate.
But say,--indignant does the Muse retire,
Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?
No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,
No raptured soul a Poet's charge to claim.
Bethink thee (Gifford); when some future age
Shall trace the promise of thy playful page;--
"[1]The hand which brush'd a swarm of fools away,
"Should rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!"--
Think then, will pleaded indolence excuse
The tame secession of thy languid Muse?
Ah! where is now that promise? Why so long
Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?
Oh! come with Taste and Virtue at thy side,
With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;
With keen poetic glance direct the blow,
And empty all thy quiver on the foe:
No pause--no rest--till weltering on the ground
The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.
Thou too!--the nameless Bard[2],--whose honest zeal
For law, for morals, for the public weal,
Pours down impetuous on thy country's foes
The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;
Thou too!--though oft thy ill-advised dislike
The guiltless head with random censure strike,--
Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,
Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;
Through the mix'd mass yet taste and learning shine,
And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;
And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires;
And wakes and points the desultory fires!
Yet more remain unknown: for who can tell
What bashful genius, in some rural cell,
As year to year, and day succeeds to day,
In joyless leisure wastes his life away?
In him the flame of early fancy shone;
His genuine worth his old companions own;
In childhood and in youth their chief confess'd,
His master's pride, his pattern to the rest.
Now far aloof retiring from the strife
Of busy talents and of active life,
As from the loop-holes of retreat, he views
Our stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,
He loathes the world,--or, with reflection sad,
Concludes it irrecoverably mad;
Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,
No hope, no prospect to redeem it, left.
Awake! for shame! or ere thy nobler sense
Sink in the oblivious pool of indolence!
Must wit be found alone on falsehood's side,
Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?
Arise! nor scorn thy country's just alarms;
Wield in her cause thy long neglected arms;
Of lofty satire pour the indignant strain,
Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain
'Gainst Learning's, Virtue's, Truth's, Religion's foes,
A kingdom's safety, and the world's repose.
If Vice appal thee,--if thou view with awe
Insults that brave, and crimes that 'scape the law;--
Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claim
A spurious homage under Virtue's name,
Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes,
The new Philosophy of modern times,--
Yet, these may rouse thee!--With unsparing hand,
Oh, lash the vile impostors from the land!
First, stern Philanthropy:--not she, who dries
The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes;
Not she, who sainted Charity her guide,
Of British bounty pours the annual tide:--
But French Philanthropy;--whose boundless mind
Glows with the general love of all mankind;--
Philanthropy,--beneath whose baneful sway
Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away.
Taught in her school t'imbibe thy mawkish strain
Condorcet filter'd through the dregs of Paine,
Each pert adept disowns a Briton's part,
And plucks the name of England from his heart.
What, shall, a name, a word, a sound controul
The aspiring thought, and cramp the expansive soul?
Shall one half-peopled Island's rocky round
A love, that glows for all Creation, bound?
And social charities contract the plan
Framed for thy Freedom, universal man?
--No--through the extended globe his feelings run
As broad and general as the unbounded sun!
No narrow bigot he;--his reason'd view
Thy interests, England, rank with thine, Peru!
France at our doors, he sees no danger nigh,
But heaves for Turkey's woes the impartial sigh;
A steady Patriot of the World alone,
The Friend of every Country--but his own.
Next comes a gentler Virtue.--Ah! beware
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare,
Visit her not too roughly;--the warm sigh
Breathes on her lips;--the tear-drop gems her eye.
Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;
With delicate Mimosa's sense endued,
Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;
Or, like the Anagallis, prescient flower,
Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Sweet child of sickly Fancy!--her of yore
From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
And while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunn'd the haunts of man,
Taught her o'er each lone vale and alpine steep
To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in her brooks that babbled by;--
--Taught by nice scale to meet her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;--
--For the crush'd beetle first,--the widow'd dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;--
Next for poor suffering guilt;--and last of all,
For Parents, Friends, a king and Country's fall.
Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow[3] o'er a faded flower
O'er a dead jack-ass pour the pearly shower;--
But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain;--of Lyons drench'd in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with Freedom's name;
Altars and thrones subverted, social life
Trampled to earth,--the husband from the wife,
Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn;--
Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,
In friendless exile,--of the wise and good
Staining the daily scaffold with their blood.--
Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,
The rage of madness with hell's lust combin'd--
Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,--
They hear--and hope, that all is for the best.
Fond hope!--but Justice sanctifies the prayer--
Justice!--here, Satire, strike! 'twere sin to spare!
Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,
The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,
Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,
With srupulous quirks, and disquisition nice--
But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,
The avenging angel of regenerate France,
Who visits ancient sins on modern times,
And punishes the Pope for Cæsar's crimes.[4]
Such is the liberal Justice which presides
In these our days, and modern patriot's guides;
Justice, whose blood-stain'd book one sole decree,
One statute fills--"The People shall be free."
Free by what means?--by folly, madness, guilt,
By bounteous rapines, blood in oceans spilt;
By confiscation, in whose sweeping toils
The poor man's pittance with the rich man's spoils,
Mix'd in one common mass, are swept away,
To glut the short liv'd tyrant of the day:--
By laws, religion, morals, all o'erthrown;
Rouse then, ye sovereign people, claim your own:
The licence that enthrals, the truth that blinds,
The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds.
So Justice bids.--'Twas her enlighten'd doom,
Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb!
'Twas Justice claim'd, in that accursed hour,
The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.
Mourn for the Man we may; but for the King,--
Freedom, oh! Freedom's such a charming thing!
"Much may be said on both sides."--Hark! I hear
A well known voice that murmurs in my ear,--
The voice of Candour.--Hail! most solemn sage,
Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,
Candour, which softens party's headlong rage.
Candour,--which spares its foes;--nor e'er descends
With bigot zeal to combat for its friends.
Candour,--which loves in see-saw strain to tell
Of acting foolishly, but meaning well;
Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,
Convinced that all men's motives are the same;
And finds, with keen discriminating sight,
Black's not so black; nor white so very white.
"Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong;
But then Pitt's words you'll own were rather strong
Both must be blamed, both pardon'd;--'twas just so
With Fox and Pitt full forty years ago;
So Walpole, Pulteney;--factions in all times,
Have had their follies, ministers their crimes."
Give me the avow'd, the erect, the manly foe,
Bold I can meet--perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good heaven, thy wrath can send,
Save, save, oh! save me from the Candid Friend!
"Barras loves plunder,--Merlin takes a bride,--
What then?--shall Candour these good men proscribe.
No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,
Prove--not the facts--but that they thought them wrong.
"Why hang O'Quigley?--he, misguided man,
In sober thought his country's weal might plan.
And, while his deep-wrought treason sapp'd the throne,
Might act from taste in morals all his own."
Peace to such Reasoners!--let them have their way
Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day.
Priestley's a Saint, and Stone a patriot still!
And La Fayette a Hero, if they will.
I love the bold uncompromising mind,
Whose principles are fix'd, whose views defined:
Who scouts and scorns, in canting Candour's spite,
All taste in morals, innate sense of right,
And Nature's impulse, all uncheck'd by art,
And feelings fine, that float about the heart;
Content, for good men's guidance, bad men's awe,
On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law.
Who owns, when Traitor's feel the avenging rod,
Just retribution, and the hand of God;
Who hears the groans through Olmutz' roofs that ring,
Of him who mock'd, misled, betray'd his King--
Hears unappall'd:--though Faction's zealots preach--
Unmov'd, unsoften'd by Ftzptrck's speech.
--That speech[5] on which the melting Commons hung,
"While truths divine came mended from his tongue."
How loving husband clings to duteous wife,--
How pure religion soothes the ills of life,--
How Popish ladies trust their pious fears
And naughty actions in their chaplain's ears.
Half novel and half sermon on it flow'd;
With pious zeal the Opposition glow'd;
And as o'er each the soft infection crept,
Sigh'd as he whined, and as he whisper'd wept;
E'en Cwn[6] dropt a sentimental tear,
And stout St. Adrw yelp'd a softer "Hear!"
O! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vain
Our colder servile spirits would attain,
How do we ape thee, France! but blundering still
Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.
The borrow'd step our awkward gait reveals:
(As clumsy Crtny[7] mars the verse he steals
How do we ape thee, France!--nor claim alone
Thy arts, thy tastes, thy morals for our own,
But to thy Worthies render homage due,
Their[8] "hair-breadth 'scapes" with anxious interest view;
Statesmen and heroines whom this age adores,
Tho' plainer terms would call them rogues and ws.
See Louvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage,
Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage,
Form'd for all tasks, his various talents see,--
The luscious novel, the severe decree.
Then mark him weltering in his nasty stye,
Bare his lewd transports to the public eye.
Not his the love in silent groves that strays,
Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.
In Lodoiska's full possession blest,
One craving void still aches within his breast;
Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,
Not to himself alone he stints her charms;
Clasp'd in each other's fond embrace they lie,
But know no joy, unless the world stands by.
--The fool of vanity, for her alone
He lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.
His widow'd mourner flies to poison's aid
Eager to join her Louvet's parted shade
In those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,
But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[9]
--Yet hapless Louvet! where thy bones are laid,
The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[10]
There, in the laughing morn of genial spring,
Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;
Eringoes, o'er the hallow'd spot shall bloom,
And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.[11]
But hold, severer virtue claims the Muse--
Roland the just, with ribbands in his shoes[12]--
And Roland's spouse who paints with chaste delight
The doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;--
Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail'd,
And how the rigid Minister[13] prevail'd.
And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien,
Guide of the world, preferment's golden queen,
Neckar's fair daughter,--Stael, the Epicene!
Bright o'er whose flaming cheek and purple[14] nose
The bloom of young desire unceasing glows!
Fain would the Muse--but ah! she dares no more,
A mournful voice from lone Guyana's shore.[15]
--Sad Quatremer--the bold presumption checks,
Forbid to question thy ambitious sex.
To thee, proud Barras bows;--thy charms controul
Rewbell's brute rage, and Merlin's subtle soul;
Raised by thy hands, and fashion'd to thy will,
Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,
Where at the blood-stain'd board expert he plies,
The lame artificer of fraud and lies
He with the mitred head and cloven heel;
Doom'd the coarse edge of Rewbell's jests to feel[16];
To stand the playful buffet, and to hear
The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;
While all the five directors laugh to see
"The limping priest so deft at his new ministry."[17]
Last of the Anointed five behold, and least,
The Directorial Lama, Sovereign Priest,--
Lepaux: whom athiests worship; at whose nod
Bow their meek heads the men without a God.[18]
Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish'd Isle,
Fresh from the shores of subjugated Nile,
Shall Buonaparte's victor fleet protect
The genuine Theo-philanthropic sect,--
The sect of Marat, Mirabeau, Voltaire,--
Led by their pontiff, good La Reveillere.
--Rejoiced our Clubs shall greet him, and install
The holy Hunch-back in thy dome, St. Paul!
While countless votaries thronging in his train
Wave their Red Caps, and hymn this jocund strain:
"Courier's and Stars, Sedition's Evening Host,
"Thou Morning Chronicle, and Morning Post,
"Whether ye make the Rights of man your theme,
"Your Country Libel, and your God blaspheme,
"Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,
"Still blasphemous or blackguard, praise Lepaux!
"And ye five other wandering Birds, that move
"In sweet accord of harmony and love,
"C---dge and S---th---y, L---d, and L---be and Co.
"Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux!
"Pr---tl---y and W---f---ld, humble holy men,
"Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!
"T---lw---l, and ye that lecture as ye go,
"And for your pains get pelted, praise Lepaux!
"Praise him each Jacobin, or fool, or knave,
"And your cropp'd heads in sign of worship wave!
"All creeping creatures, venomous and low,
"Paine, Wllms, Gdwn, Hlcrft, praise Lepaux!
"------ and ------ with ------ join'd,
"And every other beast after his kind.
"And thou, Leviathan! on ocean's brim
"Hugest of living things that sleep and swim;
"Thou, in whose nose by Burke's gigantic hand
"The hook was fix'd to drag thee to the land
"With, ------, and ------[19] in thy train,
"And ------ wallowing in the yeasty main,[20]
"Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,
"In puffing, and in spouting, praise Lepaux!'
Britain, beware; nor let the insidious foe,
Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow.
Thy peace, thy strength, with devilish wiles assail,
And when her arms are vain, by arts prevail.
True, thou art rich, art powerful! through thine Isle
Industrious skill, contented labour smile;
Far seas are studded with thy countless sails;
What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails!
True, thou art brave!--o'er all the busy land
In patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;
Thy foes behold with impotent amaze,
And drop the lifted weapon as they gaze!
But what avails to guard each outward part,
If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,
Spite of thy courage, of thy power, and wealth
Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?
So thine own Oak, by some fair streamlet's side
Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,
Towers from the earth, and rearing to the skies
Its conscious strength, the tempest's wrath defies:
Its ample branches shield the fowls of air,
To its cool shades the panting herds repair.
The treacherous current work its noiseless way,
The fibres loosen and the roots decay;
Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all
That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.
O thou!--lamented Sage!--whose prescient scan
Pierced through foul Anarchy's gigantic plan,
Prompt to incredulous hearers to disclose
The guilt of France, and Europe's world of woes:
The mighty sea-mark of these troubled days!
Thou, on whose name each distant age shall gaze,
O large of soul, of genius unconfined,
Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind;
Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow'd;
Whose copious tone with Grecian richness flow'd;
Well hast thou found (if such thy Country's doom)
A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!
As far as realms, where Eastern kings are laid,
In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,
The perfumed lamp with unextinguish'd light
Flames thro' the vault, and cheers the gloom of night.
So, mighty Burke! in thy sepulchral urn,
To fancy's view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.
Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,
Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.
There are, to whom (their taste such pleasures cloy)
No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.
Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,
Peace--such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!--
Pleased may they live to plan their Country's good,
And crop, with calm content, their flow'ry food!
What though thy venturous spirit loved to urge
The labouring theme to Reason's utmost verge,
Kindling and mounting from the enraptured sight;--
Still anxious wonder watch'd thy darling flight!
While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare,
Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!
Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise,
Which still to daring Genius Envy pays.
Oh! for thy playful smile,--thy potent frown,--
To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert folly down!
So should the Muse in Humour's happiest vein,
With verse that flow'd in metaphoric strain,
And apt allusions to the rural trade,
Tell of what wood young Jacobins are made;
How the skill'd Gardener grafts with nicest rule
The slip of Coxcomb, on the stock of fool;
Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,
A thing to wonder at,[21] perhaps a Whig,
Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant prates
Of weightiest matter, grave distinctions, states--
That rules of policy, and public good,
In Saxon times were rightly understood;
That Kings are proper, may be useful things,
But then some Gentlemen object to Kings;
That in all times the Minister's to blame;
That British Liberty's an empty name,
Till each fair burgh, numerically free,
Shall choose its Members by the Rule of Three.
So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed,
Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.
Which--(when fell poison revels in the veins--
That poison fell, which frantic Gallia drains
From the crude fruit of Freedom's blasted tree)
Blots the fair records of Humanity.
To feebler nations let proud France afford
Her damning choice,--the chalice or the sword,--
To drink or die; oh fraud! oh specious lie!
Delusive choice! for if they drink, they die.
The sword we dread not: of ourselves secure,
Firm were our strength, our Peace and Freedom sure,
Let all the world confederate all its powers,
"Be they not back'd by those that should be ours,"
High on his rock shall Britain's Genius stand,
Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.
Guard we but our own hearts: with constant view
To ancient morals, ancient manners true,
True to their manlier virtues, such as nerved
Our father's breasts, and this proud Isle preserved
For many a rugged age:--and scorn the while,--
Each philosophic atheist's specious guile--
The soft seductions, the refinements nice,
Of gay morality, and easy vice:
So shall we brave the storm: our 'stablish'd power
Thy refuge, Europe, in some happier hour.
But, French in heart--tho' victory crowns our brow,
Low at our feet though prostrate nations bow,
Wealth gild our cities, commerce crown our shore
London may shine, but England is no more.
poem by George Canning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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