The High Priest
Nay, why do foolish politicians strive
To win a fleeting popularity?
In vain, in vain, they jealously contrive
To turn the doting Public Eye from Me.
What was this land, this nation, destined for?
For Art, Trade, Politics? All out of place.
Behold, I am the Sporting Editor!
I call the race!
Reviewers, leader writers - what are they?
Subs., poets, novelists? Scribes of a sort
Mere puny scribbling creatures of a day;
While I, the people's idol, stand for Sport!
For mark, when inspiration falls on me,
What recks the public of that nameless band?
I ope' my lips, and wisdom, gushing free,
O'erflows the land.
I lift my voice, and, lo! an army wakes
A mighty host, a hundred thousand strong
To spread the message; while the nation quakes
And thunders with the burden of my song:
'Ten lengths from home 'Gray Lad' outstripped 'The Witch,'
And passed the post by just a short neck, first.'
These are the words, the pregnant words, for which
The land's athirst.
They are the children of my brain, mine own!
These mighty words for which the people yearn;
The product of my genius alone!
Would you begrudge the laurels that I earn?
Mark you, yon sturdy native, strong o' limb,
That leans against the lamp-post o'er the way
Approach, and learn of my great fame from him.
Approach and say:
'Awake! Arise! A curse on him who waits!
Behold, young man, thy country needs thy like;
The yellow hordes are panting at our gates.
Arouse, young patriot, go forth and strike!
Awake, and cast they reeking 'fag' away!
Arise, and take the white man's burden up!'
'I'll lay you ten to one, in 'quids,'' he'll say:
'Wot's won the Cup?'
Behold, the High Priest of the people's creed!
Proclaim his genius! The bays! The bays!
Come, crown the Sporting Editor - indeed,
He is familiar with bays - with grays.
'Ten lengths from home!' How exquisite! How chaste!
''Gray Lad' outstripped 'The Witch'!' What style! What grace!
Come, beauty, twine a laurel wreath. Nay, haste!
He calls the race!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
My Native Land!
WHERE is the minstrel's native land?
Where the flames of light and feeling glow;
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's brow;
Where the bounding heart swells strong and high,
With holy hopes which may not die--
There is my native land!
What is that bright land's music name?
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke,
It was called the land of the broad strong oak--
The land of the free--the German land--
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand,
And she weeps sad tears of shame.
Why does the minstrel's country weep?
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride
Of those who should stem the rising tide;
That her princes quail--and that none will hear
Her holy words of might and fear--
Therefore my land must weep!
To whom does the minstrel's country call?
It calls to the silent heavenly powers,
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers,
For its freedom--for those who should break its chain--
For the hand that never strikes in vain--
To these doth my country call!
For what does the minstrel's country sigh?
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the bound
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy ground;
That the serf may cease; and our sons be free,
Or those who have borne them, cease to be--
For this does my country sigh!
And still doth the minstrel's country hope?
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good--
That her brave will rise, and her true in blood;
And that God the avenger, our fathers' God,
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod--
Such is my country's hope!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Great God Guff
There was once a Simple People - (you, of course, will understand
This is just a little fable of a non-existent land)
There was once a Simple People, and they had a Simple King,
And his name - well, SMITH the First will do as well as anything
And they lived upon an island by a pleasant southern sea,
Which they boastfully referred to as the 'Country of the Free.'
This King SMITH was quite a model. He was kind and he was wise.
But, alas! a higher sovereign he was forced to recognise.
As in ev'ry age and nation, since the tale of man was known,
Superstition here existed as the power behind the throne.
It was vague and unsubstantial but its sway was plain enough,
And 'twas known upon the island, simply, as the Great God GUFF.
They made sacrifices to it, treasure, corn and slaughtered beasts,
Good King SMITH cringed to the idol where upon his throne he sat;
And the People feared it greatly; and the priests grew very fat.
Now, the welfare of the priestcraft did not always coincide
With the welfare of the People, hence the wily priests relied
On the hoary superstition that had stood the test of years;
Thus they led both king and people by their rather ass-like ears;
Crying: 'GUFF was ever with us! GUFF the Great must be obeyed!
GUFF the god must be consulted ere a single law be made!'
And the very simple People with their very simple King
Bowed their heads and said, 'So be it. GUFF be served in ev'rything.'
So the nation muddled somehow on its island by the sea -
Simple superstitious people in their 'Country of the Free.'
And whene'er they yearned for Progress, as things drifted to the worst,
SMITH replied, 'Have patience, people. GUFF must be consulted first.
Other lands and other nations may progress without his aid;
But upon our native island never rule or law is made
Till his priests have pondered o'er it, seeking to divine his will.
So it was with our forefathers, so with us it must be still.'
Came a time when folk grew restive, murmurming amongst themselves,
While the nation's schemes and projects lay neglected on the shelves.
Then arose amid the people one of singular renown -
Since his name the eld refuses, let us call him, simply, BROWN.
BROWN was something of a student, strong on things like common-sense;
He was plain and blunt and forceful; and he hated smug pretence.
And before the priests and people, in a manner rude and gruff,
He arose and put this question, briefly: 'Who and what is GUFF?'
Loud the People shrieked in terror; and the High-Priest threw a fit;
And the king rose from his dias as his eye with anger lit.
'He blasphemes!' declared the monarch. 'Sieze the sacrilegious brute!
Great God GUFF may not be questioned! He is mighty! absolute!'
But BROWN stood his ground and answered, 'Oh, I'm sick of all that stuff!
Give me one clear definition: What's the bloomon' use of GUFF?
He's a silly superstition! and I'll prove to you, King SMITH,
If you'll give me just five minutes, that your idol is a myth.'
Well, to bring a simple story to a sudden, simple end,
BROWN beat down all opposition, and affairs began to mend.
Good King SMITH, with seemly wisdom, on his idol turned his back;
And, without much fuss, the People simply gave old GUFF the sack.
And the priests? Well, some took service with the king, and so reformed;
Some adopted Christian Science; some in vain still raved and stormed;
Others strove to mend their fortunes with an Independent Kirk;
Some became mere weather prophets; some - a paltry few - got work.
So they thrived, the simple People, on their island by the sea;
And their schemes and projects prospered, for the land, at last, was free.
SMITH the First, emancipated, o'er a happy country ruled.
And he smiled when he reflected how the nation had been fooled;
How the simple King and People, by a superstition cursed.
Ever cried in foolish terror: 'GUFF must be consulted first!'
And the last words of that monarch long were treasured in the land . . .
But, of course, it's all a fable, as you'll clearly uderstand.
Yet - there lives a simple People on an island by the sea,
And a simple Monarch rules them called the King DEMOCRACY.
Rather, does he seek to rule them, but his will is warped and bent
By a childish superstition known as 'Party Government.'
And the idol has its priestcraft that pretends to lead the race;
Though they call them 'Politicians' in this later year of grace.
And whene'er the folk grow restive, as things drift from worse to worst,
Cry the priests, 'Behold the Party! It must be considered first!'
And the simple, simple People bend their heads and murmur, 'Yes,
We respect the claims of Party . . . But who is to mend this Mess!
Schemes go wrong and projects languish, and the Big Things of the State
Lie neglected while this Party bids us wait and ever wait!'
Oh, for some plain, forceful person with a plain, drab name like BROWN,
And a wholesome hate for humbug, and a stern, determined frown,
To arouse the simple People and their king, DEMOCRACY,
Cringing to their fool-god Party on their island by the sea!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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At The Banquet To The Chinese Embassy
AUGUST 21, 1868
BROTHERS, whom we may not reach
Through the veil of alien speech,
Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell
What the lips in vain would spell,--
Words that hearts can understand,
Brothers from the Flowery Land!
We, the evening's latest born,
Hail the children of the morn!
We, the new creation's birth,
Greet the lords of ancient earth,
From their storied walls and towers
Wandering to these tents of ours!
Land of wonders, fair Cathay,
Who long hast shunned the staring day,
Hid in mists of poet's dreams
By thy blue and yellow streams,--
Let us thy shadowed form behold,--
Teach us as thou didst of old.
Knowledge dwells with length of days;
Wisdom walks in ancient ways;
Thine the compass that could guide
A nation o'er the stormy tide,
Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears,
Safe through thrice a thousand years!
Looking from thy turrets gray
Thou hast seen the world's decay,--
Egypt drowning in her sands,--
Athens rent by robbers' hands,--
Rome, the wild barbarian's prey,
Like a storm-cloud swept away:
Looking from thy turrets gray
Still we see thee. Where are they?
And to I a new-born nation waits,
Sitting at the golden gates
That glitter by the sunset sea,--
Waits with outspread arms for thee!
Open wide, ye gates of gold,
To the Dragon's banner-fold!
Builders of the mighty wall,
Bid your mountain barriers fall!
So may the girdle of the sun.
Bind the East and West in one,
Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan
The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan,--
Till Erie blends its waters blue
With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu,--
Till deep Missouri lends its flow
To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The House of the Commonwealth
We sent a word across the seas that said,
"The house is finished and the doors are wide,
Come, enter in.
A stately house it is, with tables spread,
Where men in liberty and love abide
With hearts akin.
"Behold, how high our hands have lifted it!
The soil it stands upon is pure and sweet
As are our skies.
Our title deeds in holy sweat are writ,
Not red accusing blood -- and 'neath our feet
No foeman lies."
And England, Mother England, leans her face
Upon her hand and feels her blood burn young
At what she sees:
The image here of that fair strength and grace
That made her feared and loved and sought and sung
Through centuries.
What chorus shall we lift, what song of joy,
What boom of seaward cannon, roll of drums?
The majesty of nationhood demands
A burst of royal sounds, as when a victor comes
From peril of a thousand foes;
An empire's honour saved from death
Brought home again; an added rose
Of victory upon its wreath.
In this wise men have greeted kings,
In name or fame,
But such acclaim
Were vain and emptiest of things
If love were silent, drawn apart,
And mute the People's mighty heart.
The love that ivy-like an ancient land doth cherish,
It grows not in a day, nor in a year doth perish.
But, little leaf by leaf,
It creeps along the walls and wreathes the ramparts hoary.
The sun that gives it strength -- it is a nation's glory;
The dew, a people's grief.
The love that ivy-like around a home-land lingers,
With soft embrace of breast and green, caressive fingers,
We are too young to know.
Not ours the glory-dome, the monuments and arches
At thought of which takes arms the blood, and proudly marches
Exultant o'er the foe.
Green lands undesolated
For no avengement cry;
No feud of race unsated
Leaps out again to triumph,
Leaps out again to triumph, or to die!
Attendant here to-day in heart and mind
Must be all lovers of mankind,
Attendant, too, the souls sublime --
The Prophet-souls of every clime,
Who, living, in a tyrant's time,
Yet thought and wrought and sought to break
The chains about mankind and make
A man where men had made a slave:
Who all intent to lift and save
Beheld the flag of Freedom wave
And scorned the prison or the grave;
For whom the darkness failed to mar
The vision of a world afar,
The shining of the Morning Star.
Attendant here, then, they must be,
And gathering close with eyes elate
Behold the vision of a State
Where men are equal, just, and free:
A State that hath no stain upon her,
No taint to hurt her maiden honour;
A Home where love and kindness centre;
A People's House where all may enter.
And, being entered, meet no dearth
Of welcome round a common hearth;
A People's House not built of stone,
Nor wrought by hand and brain alone,
But formed and founded on the heart;
A People's House, A People's Home,
En-isled in foam and far apart;
A People's House, where all may roam
The many rooms and be at ease;
A People's House, with tower and dome;
And over all a People's Flag --
A Flag upon the breeze.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Our Land
Our land of Australia, this country so wide,
Where on holidays, you can find somewhere to hide;
Away from the noise, to the county, or the sea side,
A place to call home awhile, watch the incoming tide.
Our Land is made of states, and mountains so high,
Where you can climb, watch the scenes, and give a sigh;
The vastness as you look around, and thank the good Lord,
For His creation, of beauty, then I see as I read His Word,
Our land of creatures, wild, fauna, roaming so free,
And the many colours, of the creatures that my eyes do see;
From the large emu, to the tiniest lizard, crawling near me,
I then thank the good Lord, these things were meant to be.
Our land of mountains, and the rivers and sea that's here,
The flora spread around, their colors so close and near.
Reminds me of the rainbow, and Gods promise so dear,
That God made creation for us, with His Love, takes away fear.
Our land of many places, and a nation to behold,
To think of the trees standing tall, some very old;
And then in the ground, we find some beauty, as Gold,
But then look at the brave hearts of a patient, who is Bold.
Our land so big, Yet from a plane so very high,
Looks so tiny, like ants, crawling all by;
Look at the fish, swimming around, in the sea, oh I sigh,
Thank you Dear Lord, for everything, I've seen by and by.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Civilization may.........
Civilizations may emerge fresh and vanish
Remains may be found later on but not finish
Excavations may shed some light on glorious past
There may be some reasons for its extinctions very fast
How does nation emerge with historical traditions?
Deep rooted love for holy land without condition
Every citizen ready to shed blood for its pride and honor
All to defend irrespective of old or young major or minor
Nation may remain within secured boundaries
It may have all the prosperity with big industries
Peace and stability may still elude the nation
Other neighbors may not like to have good relations
How can sentiments and attachments remain intact without identity?
Stable nation with strong defense is all call of the day and necessity
Nation can only prosper and rise with strong and resolute action
We the people of nation has every right to defend without any reaction
Can any nation prosper without popular support?
Is it not essential to live as one nation with good rapport?
Does then any nation may you look towards you for any weak spot?
I think they will refrain from any mad misadventure and dare not
It will be great shame if we have to live under constant fear
It will be living death if constantly agony and pain we have to bear
Nation will pass through identity crisis and suffer with humiliation
To live under shame may add insult and find no reconciliation
It is right said “don’t ask what country is doing for you”
But ask “what you are doing for the country”
It has deep meaning in it and quiet sensible thought behind
Any nation can’t afford to go without it and reasonably find
No nation can advance and have identity of its own
If it has no clear policy and stand clearly known
At least people of other nations may look toward with a respect
They will think twice before and enter into pact
Ancient civilizations were knows for its tolerance
“Live and let others live” was slogan free from any interfearence
This always formed corner stone of policy
Liberty and freedom were not the words from mighty
Liberal thoughts must prevail and message should go across
Let there be the free world with liberty thoughts and no threats to pose
No intimidation of any sort with mutual territorial integrity in tact
Let there be free flow of people to uphold the humanity in fact
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Anhelli - Chapter 1
Exiles came to the land of Siberia, and having chosen a broad site they built a
wooden house that they might dwell together in concord and brotherly love; and
there were of them about a thousand men of various stations in life.
And the government had provided women for them that they might marry,
because their sentence made known that they were sent to people the country.
For a time there was among them great order and great sorrow,
for they could not forget that they were exiles
and that they should see their fatherland no more-unless God should will it.
And when they had already built the house and each one had taken up his own work,
except the people who desired to be called wise men, who remained in idleness, saying:
'Lo, we ponder on the salvation of the fatherland,' they beheld upon a time a great flock
of black birds flying from the north.
After the birds there appeared a sort of train and caravan,
and sledges harnessed with dogs, and a herd of reindeer with branching horns,
and men on skis bearing spears : it was the whole Siberian people.
At their head, moreover, walked the king of the people, who was at the same time a priest,
dressed according to their custom in furs and in corals,
and he wore a wreath of dead serpents instead of a crown.
Then that ruler, drawing near to the throng of exiles,
said in the language of their own land : 'Hail !
'Behold I have known your fathers who were also unfortunate,
and I have seen how they lived in the fear of God and died, saying `Fatherland ! Fatherland !'
'Therefore do I wish to be your friend and to make a covenant
between you and my people, that ye may be in an hospitable land
and in a country of well-wishers.
'And of your fathers now is none living except one only, who is already old
and who is well-inclined toward me ;
but he dwelleth far hence in a lonely hut.
'If ye desire that the friend of your fathers be your leader,
I will abide with you and forsake my own people;
for ye are the more unfortunate.'
Yet more that old man said, and they showed
him reverence and invited him to their tabernacle.
And they made a covenant with the people of Siberia,
who departed and settled in their snowy villages ;
but their king remained with the exiles that he might comfort them.
And they marvelled at his wisdom, saying
'Lo, this he hath surely gotten from our fathers,
and his words are from our ancestors.'
And they called him Shaman, for so the people of Siberia
call their kings and priests, who are wizards.
poem by Juliusz Slowacki
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Hon. James B. Clay
Another pang for Southern hearts,
That of late so oft have bled,
Another name to add to the roll
Of their mighty, patriot dead;
A vacant place ’mid that phalanx proud.
Of which each glorious name
Is dear to a mighty nation’s heart,
And dear to undying fame.
The God-given gift of genius his,
The patriot’s holy fire,
For he we mourn was a worthy son
Of a great and glorious sire:
Ah! whate’er the changes time may bring,
Shall never pass away
From the people’s mind, in North or South,
The deathless name of Clay.
Yet an exile in a foreign land,
His spirit passed from earth,
Far from the old dear scenes of home,
The loved land of his birth,—
The land he had well and truly served,
With heart, with sword, with pen,
Since first he had joined the march of life,
By the side of his fellow men.
No Southern breezes, soft and sweet,
Played around his dying bed,
No Southern flowers in glowing bloom,
Rich fragrance round him shed;
The wintry light of a Northern sky,
Earth robed in snowy vest,
Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze
As he passed into his rest
But near him gathered devoted hearts,
Wife, children, at his side,
Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked,
With fond, revering pride,
On him who had ever been to them,
Throughout his life’s career,
A model of all that honor high,
Or virtue holds most dear.
And other mourners leaves he too,
Who had learned to love him well.
Though short the time since he had come,
Within our midst to dwell:
Friends who will keep his name fore’er
’Mid those they we set apart,
To cherish deeply, and revere,
Within their inmost heart.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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God Defend New Zealand
God of Nations at Thy feet,
In the bonds of love we meet,
Hear our voices, we entreat,
God defend our free land.
Guard Pacific's triple star
From the shafts of strife and war,
Make her praises heard afar,
God defend New Zealand.
Men of every creed and race,
Gather here before Thy face,
Asking Thee to bless this place,
God defend our free land.
From dissension, envy, hate,
And corruption guard our State,
Make our country good and great,
God defend New Zealand.
Peace, not war, shall be our boast,
But, should foes assail our coast,
Make us then a mighty host,
God defend our free land.
Lord of battles in Thy might,
Put our enemies to flight,
Let our cause be just and right,
God defend New Zealand.
Let our love for Thee increase,
May Thy blessings never cease,
Give us plenty, give us peace,
God defend our free land.
From dishonour and from shame,
Guard our country's spotless name,
Crown her with immortal fame,
God defend New Zealand.
May our mountains ever be
Freedom's ramparts on the sea,
Make us faithful unto Thee,
God defend our free land.
Guide her in the nation's van,
Preaching love and truth to man,
Working out Thy glorious plan,
God defend New Zealand.
poem by Thomas Bracken
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Brunton Stephens
The gentle heart that hated wrong,
The courage that all ills withstood,
The seeing eye, the mighty song
That stirred us into Nationhood,
Have passed. What garlands can be spread?
The Prince of Courtesy is dead.
The power that touched all human chords
With wit that lightened thro’ the years
Without a sting, whose tender words
Unsealed the fountain of our tears—
Ah! bow the heart and bend the head—
The Prince of Courtesy is dead.
Great Singer of the South, who set
Thy face to Duty as a star,
Though, in hushed skies of violet,
Thy throne of kingship gleamed afar,
Shall not the toil of common days
Add nobler lustre to thy bays!
O Mighty Voice, whose words shall stand—
When all our songs have ceased to be—
Steadfast, the watchwords of our land,
The guide and torch of Liberty!
The Master-Poet called afar,
And thou at last hast found thy star!
poem by George Essex Evans
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A Song For Peace And Honour
TO THE QUEEN
LADY and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,
Upon whose head the glories of our land
In one immortal diadem are met,
Embodied England, in whose woman-hand
The sceptre of Imperial sway is set,
Receive this song of mine!
For you are England, and her bays grow green
To deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,
And in our hearts your face is as Her face;
The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.
We, men of England, children of her might,
With all our Mother's record-roll of glory,
Great with her greatness, noble by her name,
Drank with our mothers' milk our Mother's story,
And in our veins the splendour of her fame
Made strong our blood and bright;
And to her absent sons her name has been
Familiar music heard in distant lands,
Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,
England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!
Out of the thunderous echoes of the past
Through the gold-dust of centuries we hear
Her voice, 'O children of a royal line,
Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,
Mine was the Past--make ye the future mine
All glorious to the last!'
And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,
And men to heroes, and the voice of fear
Is as a whisper in a deaf man's ear,
And the dead past is quick in us again.
Her robe is woven of glory and renown,
Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,
And lordship of the wild and watery ways,
Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:
Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blaze
For jewels in her crown.
Her Empire like a girdle doth enfold
The world; her feet upon her foes are set;
She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amulet
Won by her children in the days of old.
Yet in a treasury of such gems as these
Which power and sovereignty and kingship fill
To the vast limit of the circling sun,
England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,
As her most precious jewel, save only one,
The priceless pearl of peace--
Peace plucked from out the very heart of war
Through the long agony of strenuous years,
Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,
A pearl to lie where England's treasures are.
O peaceful English lanes all white with may,
O English meadows where the grass grows tall,
O red-roofed village, field and farm and fold
Where the long shadows of the elm-trees fall
On the wide pastures which the sun calls gold
And twilit dew calls gray;--
These are the home, the happy cradle-place
Of every man who has our English tongue,
Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,
Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!
Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:
Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?
Is it not more to us than all things are?
Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,
But England's honour is more precious far
Than all the heavens and earth.
Were honour outcast from her supreme place
Our pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,
But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,
Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.
Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,
We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,
But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,
The whole world came against us in array,
If all our glory into darkness passed,
Our Empire ceased to be,
Yet should we still have chosen the better part
Though in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,
Though lost were every jewel in our crown
We still should wear our jewel in our heart.
So, for our Mother's honour, if it must
Let Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;
Not trampled down, but given, for her sake
Who forged of many an iron yesterday
The golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wake
When we are dust, in dust:
For brotherhood and strife and praise and blame
And all the world, even to our very land,
Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sand
Against the honour of our English name!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Bone and Sinew and Brain
YE white-maned waves of the Western Sea,
That ride and roll to the strand,
Ye strong-winged birds, never forced a-lee
By the gales that sweep toward land,
Ye are symbols of death, and of hope that saves,
As ye swoop in your strength and grace,
As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves
Of a past and puerile race.
Cry, 'Presto, change!' and the lout is lord,
With his vulgar blood turned blue;
Go dub your knight with a slap of a sword,
As the kings in Europe do;
Go grade the lines of your social mode
As you grade the palace wall,—
The people forever to bear the load,
And the gilded vanes o'er all.
But the human blocks will not lie as still
As the dull foundation stones,
But will rise, like a sea, with an awful will,
And ingulf the golden thrones;
For the days are gone when a special race
Took the place of the gilded vane;
And the merit that mounts to the highest place
Must have bone and sinew and brain.
Let the cant of ' the march of mind ' be heard,
Of the time to come, when man
Shall lose the mark of his brawn and beard
In the future's leveling plan:
'Tis the dream of a mind effeminate,
The whine for an easy crown;
There is no meed for the good and great
In the weakling's leveling down.
A nation's boast is a nation's bone,
As well as its might of mind;
And the culture of either of these alone
Is the doom of a nation signed.
But the cant of the ultra-suasion school
Unsinews the hand and thigh,
And preaches the creed of the weak to rule,
And the strong to struggle and die.
Our schools are spurred to the fatal race,
As if health were the nation's sin,
Till the head grows large, and the vampire face
Is gorged on the limbs so thin.
Our women have entered the abstract fields,
And avaunt with the child and home:
While the rind of science a pleasure yields
Shall they care for the lives to come?
And they ape the manners of manly times
In their sterile and worthless life,
Till the man of the future augments his crimes
With a raid for a Sabine wife.
Ho, white-maned waves of the Western Sea,
That ride and roll to the strand!
Ho, strong-winged birds, never blown a-lee
By the gales that sweep toward land!
Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves,
As ye swoop in your strength and grace,
As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves
Of a suicidal race.
Ye have hoarded your strength in equal parts;
For the men of the future reign
Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts,
And bone and sinew and brain.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Song
WHEN the warrior returns, from the battle afar,
To the home and the country he nobly defended,
O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended:
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Columbians! a band of your brothers behold,
Who claim the reward of your hearts' warm emotion,
When your cause, when your honor, urged onward the bold,
In vain frowned the desert, in vain raged the ocean:
To a far distant shore, to the battle's wild roar,
They rushed, your fair fame and your rights to secure:
Then, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
In the conflict resistless, each toil they endured,
'Till their foes fled dismayed from the war's desolation:
And pale beamed the Crescent, its splendor obscured
By the light of the Star Spangled flag of our nation.
Where each radiant star gleamed a meteor of war,
And the turbaned heads bowed to its terrible glare,
Now, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Our fathers, who stand on the summit of fame,
Shall exultingly hear of their sons the proud story:
How their young bosoms glow'd with the patriot flame,
How they fought, how they fell, in the blaze of their glory.
How triumphant they rode o'er the wondering flood,
And stained the blue waters with infidel blood;
How, mixed with the olive, the laurel did wave,
And formed a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Then welcome the warrior returned from afar
To the home and the country he nobly defended:
Let the thanks due to valor now gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended.
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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Whose Country Is This?
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of snakes;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of many waters;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of thieves! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of oil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of earthquakes!
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of lovers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of volcanoes!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful flowers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hansome men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of roses;
Whose country is this?
it is a land ruled only by men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land without rainfall;
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by a woman;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of corruption!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pirates! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by law;
Whose country is this?
It is a land controlled by rebels!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ice;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of singers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of troubles;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of war! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land with the biggest cemetery in the wolrd!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of desert;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of trees;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant teenagers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of timber;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hatred;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of love;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of care;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of peace;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of smokers!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of businesses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of harlots;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of wise people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of idiots!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of gold;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of cocoa;
Whose country is this?
It is a alnd full of crabs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of evil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of rainfalls;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ants;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of horses;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pigs;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of statues;
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of birds;
And so on, and so forth!
Because nature had made them so as we see them around us,
But the wise and fool live together on this earth.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Church Building
Uncle Jacob often told us,
Since freedom blessed our race
We ought all to come together
And build a meeting place.
So we pinched, and scraped, and spared,
A little here and there:
Though our wages was but scanty,
The church did get a share.
And, when the house was finished,
Uncle Jacob came to pray;
He was looking mighty feeble,
And his head was awful gray.
But his voice rang like a trumpet;
His eyes looked bright and young;
And it seemed a mighty power
Was resting on his tongue.
And he gave us all his blessing -
'Twas parting words he said,
For soon we got the message
The dear old man was dead.
But I believe he's in the kingdom,
For when we shook his hand
He said, 'Children, you must meet me
Right in the promised land;
'For when I done a moiling
And toiling here below,
Through the gate into the city
Straightway I hope to go.'
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Canada First
To home and Country shouts we raise I
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
This Land us bred : these Hills are ours :
These Mighty Floods that seaward roll
We know no masters but ourselves
We know no bounds this side the pole !
God gave to us these Reaching Woods :
The Spreading Lakes we sail upon ;
We hold them for our children's right
And who is he intrudes thereon?
And we shall till the Rolling Plains
That reach into the setting sun ;
'Tis our Dominion to extend
To coasts that lave the Great Ocean.
To Home and Country shouts we raise !
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
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Australian Anthem
Maker of earth and sea,
What shall we render Thee?
All things are Thine!
Ours but from day to day
Still with one heart to pray,
“God bless our land alway,”
This land of Thine.
Mighty in brotherhood,
Mighty for God and good,
Let us be Thine.
Here let the nations see
Toil from the curse set free,
Labour and Liberty
One cause—and Thine.
Here let glad Plenty reign;
Here let none seek in vain
Our help and Thine—
No heart for want of friend
Fail ere the timely end,
But love for ever blend
Man's cause and Thine
Here let Thy peace abide;
Never may strife divide
This land of Thine.
Let us united stand,
One great Australian band,
Heart to heart, hand in hand,
Heart and hand Thine
Strong to defend our right,
Proud in all nations' sight,
Lowly in Thine—
One in all noble fame,
Still be our path the same,
Onward in Freedom's name,
Upward in Thine
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Psalm 17
v.13-15
S. M.
Portion of saints and sinners.
Arise, my gracious God,
And make the wicked flee;
They are but thy chastising rod,
To drive thy saints to thee.
Behold, the sinner dies,
His haughty words are vain;
Here in this life his pleasure lies,
And all beyond is pain.
Then let his pride advance,
And boast of all his store;
The Lord is my inheritance,
My soul can wish no more.
I shall behold the face
Of my forgiving God;
And stand complete in righteousness,
Washed in my Savior's blood.
There's a new heav'n begun,
When I awake from death,
Dressed in the likeness of thy Son,
And draw immortal breath.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Psalm 89 part 4
v.19ff
C. M.
Christ's mediatorial kingdom; or, His Divine and human nature
Hear what the Lord in vision said,
And made his mercy known:
"Sinners, behold your help is laid
On my Almighty Son.
"Behold the Man my wisdom chose
Among your mortal race:
His head my holy oil o'erflows,
The Spirit of my grace.
"High shall he reign on David's throne,
My people's better King;
My arm shall beat his rivals down,
And still new subjects bring.
"My truth shall guard him in his way,
With mercy by his side,
While in my name through earth and sea
He shall in triumph ride.
"Me for his Father and his God
He shall for ever own,
Call me his rock, his high abode,
And I'll support my Son.
"My first-born Son arrayed in grace
At my right hand shall sit;
Beneath him angels know their place,
And monarchs at his feet.
"My cov'nant stands for ever fast,
My promises are strong;
Firm as the heav'ns his throne shall last,
His seed endure as long."
poem by Isaac Watts
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On The Goddess Of Poesy
The Goddess of Poesy the Goddess of Song
To the Universal immortals she surely belong
The poets of the World her praises do sing
The gift of poetry to their souls she does bring.
The poets to write poems Goddess Poesy inspire
And of singing her praises they don't seem to tire
The poetry of sorrow the poetry of joy
The poetry of youth of the young girl and boy.
The poetry of youthfulness and of growing old
Of young women in their prime lovely to behold
The beauty of Nature the birds and the bees
The mammals and fishes of land and of seas.
The Goddess of poets of every gender race and creed
For their inspiration to write in her lives her they need
Of love, life and Nature she inspires poets to write
For the lovers of poetry to read and recite.
poem by Francis Duggan
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