The World’s Justice
If the sudden tidings came
That on some far, foreign coast,
Buried ages long from fame,
Had been found a remnant lost
Of that hoary race who dwelt
By the golden Nile divine,
Spake the Pharaoh's tongue and knelt
At the moon-crowned Isis' shrine-
How at reverend Egypt's feet,
Pilgrims from all lands would meet!
If the sudden news were known,
That anigh the desert-place
Where once blossomed Babylon,
Scions of a mighty race
Still survived, of giant build,
Huntsmen, warriors, priest and sage,
Whose ancestral fame had filled,
Trumpet-tongued, the earlier age,
How at old Assyria's feet
Pilgrims from all lands would meet!
Yet when Egypt's self was young,
And Assyria's bloom unworn,
Ere the mythic Homer sung,
Ere the gods of Greece were born,
Lived the nation of one God,
Priests of freedom, sons of Shem,
Never quelled by yoke or rod,
Founders of Jerusalem-
Is there one abides to-day,
Seeker of dead cities, say!
Answer, now as then, THEY ARE;
Scattered broadcast o'er the lands,
Knit in spirit nigh and far,
With indissoluble bands.
Half the world adores their God,
They the living law proclaim,
And their guerdon is-the rod,
Stripes and scourgings, death and shame.
Still on Israel's head forlorn,
Every nation heaps its scorn.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Foreign Lands
You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,
Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;
You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,
But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’
For the Early Days are over,
And no more the white-winged rover
Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.
Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dreamlike, faint and far,
Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,
For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,
And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.
Ah! the days of blue and gold!
When the news was six months old—
But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.
Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat
Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;
Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—
Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.
When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,
And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;
When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—
Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,
‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—
Half the world and orders sealed—
And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.
Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—
Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;
Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,
And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,
Through the cold and through the drought—
Further on and further out—
Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.
Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts
Followed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’
By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands
Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—
Gave their young lives for our sake
(Was it all a grand mistake?)
Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!
Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,
I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’
But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,
I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
poem by Henry Lawson
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A Hymn to the Unsung Heroes
Under the green sods, lie unknown
The mighty warriors of our land.
Strong and steadfast they marched to the field,
Wielding weapons in their hand.
Their daring and their deeds of grit,
Secured freedom for our land.
Blessed be the wombs that bore,
Those dauntless men of fiery brand.
Plucked away from hearth and kin,
They oft dwelt in lands unknown.
Many a laurel they had won.
Living a dismal life forlorn.
Lay in ambush in dingy trench
Crossed swords with formidable might
Starved to death in enemy camps
Fought with verve for country's right
The resolute brigade knew no rest
Ease and comfort, they had none
To drill and discipline, they were wed
Life's winsome pleasures, they did shun
Bravely bared their manly breasts
Before triggered guns and flying bullets
Shed out every dropp of blood
To save the nation from rival blasts
Long, long may their memories last
Let every tongue their daring praise
Let the Nation bow its head
Let their deeds, our morale raise.
poem by Valsa George
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The Moon of Ramadân
The sunset melts upon the Nile,
The stony desert glows,
Beneath heaven's universal smile,
One burning damask rose;
And like a Peri's pearly boat,
No longer than a span,
Look, faint on fiery sky afloat,
The Moon of Ramadân.
Our boat drifts idly with the Stream,
Our boatmen ship the oar;
Vistas of endless temples gleam
On either topaz shore;
And swimming over groves of Palm,
A crescent weak and wan,
There steals into the perfect calm
The Moon of Ramadân.
All nature seems to bask in peace
And hush her lowest sigh;
Above the river's golden fleece
The happy Halcyons fly.
And lost in some old lotos dream,
The pensive Pelican
Sees mirrored in the mazy stream
The Moon of Ramadân.
Black outlined on the golden air
A turbaned Silhouette,
The Mueddin invites to prayer
From many a Minaret.
Our dusky boatmen hear the call,
And prostrate, man on man,
They bow, adoring, one and all,
The Moon of Ramadân.
Where Luxor's rose-flushed columns shine
Above the river's brim,
The priests with incense once, and wine,
Made sacrifice to Him,
The highest god of Thebes, and head
Of all the heavenly clan;
But now the Moslem hails instead
The Moon of Ramadân.
The gods have come, the gods have gone,
Yet wedded to their walls,
Winged with the serpent of the Sun
In mute processionals,
They stride from door to massy door,
Bound nations in their van,
Though Amon's Sun has waned before
The Moon of Ramadân.
Yea, even proud Egypt's proudest king,
Who chastised rebel lands,
And brought his gods for offering
Mountains of severed hands;
Who singly, like a god of War,
Smote hosts that swerved and ran,
Lies low 'neath Allah's scimetar--
The Moon of Ramadân.
And Isis, Queen, whose sacred disk's
Horned splendour crowned her brow,
While fires of flashing Obelisks
Flamed in the Afterglow;
And white-robed priests who served her shrine
Have turned Mahommedan,
And worship Him who wears for sign
The Moon of Ramadân.
The rosy lotos, flower and leaf,
Which wreathed each sacred lake,
With Nature's loveliest bas-relief,
Has followed in their wake;
Yea, with the last true Pharaoh's death,
The lotos leaves, grown wan,
Have changed to lily white beneath
The Moon of Ramadân.
The gods may come, the gods may go,
And royal realms change hands;
But the most ancient Nile will flow,
And flood the desert sands;
And nightly will he glass the stars'
Unearthly caravan,
Nor care if it be Rome's red Mars
Or Moon of Ramadân.
The sunset fades upon the Nile;
The desert's stony gloom,
Receding blankly mile on mile,
Grows silent as a tomb.
All weary wanderers, man and beast,
Hie, fasting, to the Khan,
While shines above their nightly feast
The Moon of Ramadân.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Peace Everywhere
Peace, everywhere, peace today!
Peace in lands of scruffy trees and pine,
Peace in lands of olives and wine,
Peace in lands where peaks are white,
Peace in lands where fields are bright.
Peace in lands of oasis and sand,
Peace in lands where people band,
Peace in lands where children play,
Peace in lands where people pray,
Peace in lands in the thick of the fight,
Peace in lands ruled by force and might.
Everywhere, everywhere, peace this day!
Pray that all world leaders lead the way,
Encouraging moral people to stand proud and tall,
No government too great, no nation too small.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Webster
"When I and all those that hear me shall have gone to our last home, and when the mould may have gathered on our memories, as it will on our tombs:" -- Webster's Speech in the Senate, July, 1850.
The mould upon thy memory! -- No,
Not while one note is rung,
Of those divine, immortal songs
Milton and Shakespeare sung; --
Not till the night of years enshrouds
The Anglo-Saxon tongue.
No! let the flood of Time roll on,
And men and empires die; --
Genius enthroned on lofty heights
Can its dread course defy,
And here on earth, can claim the gift
Of immortality:
Can save from that Lethean tide
That sweeps so dark along,
A people's name; -- a people's fame
To future time prolong,
As Troy still lives and only lives
In Homer's deathless song.
What though to buried Nineveh
The traveller may come,
And roll away the stone that hides
That long forgotten tomb; --
He questions its mute past in vain,
Its oracles are dumb.
What though he stand where Balbec stood
Gigantic in its pride;
No voice comes o'er that silent waste,
Lone, desolate and wide; --
They had no bard, no orator,
No statesman, -- and they died.
They lived their little span of life,
They lived and died in vain; --
They sank ingloriously beneath
Oblivion's silent reign,
As sank beneath the Dead Sea wave
The Cities of the Plain.
But for those famed, immortal lands,
Greece and imperial Rome,
Where Genius left its shining mark,
And found its chosen home,
All eloquent with mind they speak,
Wood, wave and crumbling dome.
The honeyed words of Plato still
Float on the echoing air,
The thunders of Demosthenes
AEgean waters bear,
And the pilgrim to the Forum hears
The voice of Tully there.
And thus thy memory shall live,
And thus thy fame resound,
While far-off future ages roll
Their solemn cycles round,
And make this wide, this fair New World
An ancient, classic ground.
Then with our Country's glorious name
Thine own shall be entwined;
Within the Senate's pillared hall
Thine image shall be shrined;
And on the nation's Law shall gleam
Light from thy giant mind.
Our proudest monuments no more
May rise to meet the sky,
The stately Capitol o'erthrown,
Low in the dust may lie;
But mind, sublime above the wreck,
Immortal -- cannot die.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pride Of Man
Turn around,
go back down,
back the way you came,
Can't you see that flash of fire ten times brighter than the day?
And behold a mighty city broken in the dust again,
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
Turn around,
go back down,
back the way you came,
Babylon is laid to waste, Egypt's buried in her shame,
The mighty men are all beaten down, their kings are fallen in the ways,
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
Turn around,
go back down,
back the way you came,
Terror is on every side, lo our leaders are dismayed.
For those who place their faith in fire, their faith in fire shall be
repaid,
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
Turn around,
go back down,
back the way you came,
And shout a warning unto the nation that the sword of God is raised.
Yes, Babylon, that mighty city, rich in treasures, wide in fame,
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
The meek shall cause your tower to fall, make of you a pyre of flame,
Oh you who dwell on many waters, rich in treasures, wide in fame.
you bow unto your God of gold, your pride of might shall be a shame,
For only God can lead His people back unto the Earth again.
Oh God, Pride of Man, broken in the dust again.
A Holy mountain be restored, and mercy on that people, that people
song performed by by Quicksilver Messenger Service
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Went Down into the Desert
I went down into the desert
To meet Elijah—
Arisen from the dead.
I thought to. find him in an echoing cave;
For so my dream had said.
I went down into the desert
To meet John the Baptist.
I walked with feet that bled,
Seeking that prophet lean and brown and bold.
I spied foul fiends instead.
I went down into the desert
To meet my God.
By him be comforted.
I went down into the desert
To meet my God.
And I met the devil in red.
I went down into the desert
To meet my God.
O, Lord my God, awaken from the dead!
I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground,
I see you there, half-buried in the sand.
I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare,
The carrion-birds a-wheeling round your head.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Hermes Trismegistus
Still through Egypt's desert places
Flows the lordly Nile,
From its banks the great stone faces
Gaze with patient smile.
Still the pyramids imperious
Pierce the cloudless skies,
And the Sphinx stares with mysterious,
Solemn, stony eyes.
But where are the old Egyptian
Demi-gods and kings?
Nothing left but an inscription
Graven on stones and rings.
Where are Helios and Hephaestus,
Gods of eldest eld?
Where is Hermes Trismegistus,
Who their secrets held?
Where are now the many hundred
Thousand books he wrote?
By the Thaumaturgists plundered,
Lost in lands remote;
In oblivion sunk forever,
As when o'er the land
Blows a storm-wind, in the river
Sinks the scattered sand.
Something unsubstantial, ghostly,
Seems this Theurgist,
In deep meditation mostly
Wrapped, as in a mist.
Vague, phantasmal, and unreal
To our thought he seems,
Walking in a world ideal,
In a land of dreams.
Was he one, or many, merging
Name and fame in one,
Like a stream, to which, converging
Many streamlets run?
Till, with gathered power proceeding,
Ampler sweep it takes,
Downward the sweet waters leading
From unnumbered lakes.
By the Nile I see him wandering,
Pausing now and then,
On the mystic union pondering
Between gods and men;
Half believing, wholly feeling,
With supreme delight,
How the gods, themselves concealing,
Lift men to their height.
Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated,
In the thoroughfare
Breathing, as if consecrated,
A diviner air;
And amid discordant noises,
In the jostling throng,
Hearing far, celestial voices
Of Olympian song.
Who shall call his dreams fallacious?
Who has searched or sought
All the unexplored and spacious
Universe of thought?
Who, in his own skill confiding,
Shall with rule and line
Mark the border-land dividing
Human and divine?
Trismegistus! three times greatest!
How thy name sublime
Has descended to this latest
Progeny of time!
Happy they whose written pages
Perish with their lives,
If amid the crumbling ages
Still their name survives!
Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately
Found I in the vast,
Weed-encumbered sombre, stately,
Grave-yard of the Past;
And a presence moved before me
On that gloomy shore,
As a waft of wind, that o'er me
Breathed, and was no more.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Lament for Atlantis
Mighty gods, O rulers of all beneath ye,
hear this lamentation I bear, that speaks of
fair Atlantis, place of my birthplace, lost now,
drowned by the ocean.
Lonely lies the land of Atlantis, lost now
under ocean. Once it was full of wonders,
once it was full of people and temples, drowned now
under the deep waves.
Drowned, she lies, lost under the ocean's broad reach;
once a queen, now draped in a corpse's wound sheet,
fair Atlantis lay as a pearl above all pearls,
above all known lands.
Once an empress over all lands, she lies drowned;
deep beneath the ocean she lies, she lies low
under endless waves while the years and the ages
pass like a swift wind.
No-one comes to comfort her, ease her sorrow.
All her friends have left her alone in sorrow,
all the lands have dealt with her treacherously,
left her unmourned, lorn.
Fair Atlantis lies in the ocean's deep breast
while the nations come no more, under dyed sails,
bring no gifts of gold or else costly cargoes
under the dyed sails.
All her temples lie in the ocean's deep breast,
all her festivals and sacred statues,
all her sacred slaves and her holy virgins
lie in its deep breast.
All her sacred groves, and her many fair fields
lie beneath the ocean; and all her cities
lie beneath the waves that ye caused to rise up,
drown it in one day.
All her enemies have become as great kings,
saying: 'Fair Atlantis is lost for all time,
let us rule the Earth while she lies destroyed, dead
under the deep waves.'
Fair Atlantis calls to her former fair friends:
'High I raised you, gave you the gifts of great lore,
yet you all exult in my sudden downfall,
strut like a vain cock.'
How the countries envy her glories, lost now
while beneath the ocean she lies, forlorn, lost,
when her people lived as do heroes god-blessed,
basking in glory.
When her people fell to the ocean waves,
how the countries mocked at her fall to harsh fate,
how the countries mocked at her, lost to deep waves
rolling above her.
Is her fate naught to the mighty nations?
Fair she rose and ruled, but now desolate, drowned
deep beneath waves, fallen from pride that whelms all,
which will befall them.
For my land, I weep with my bitter, bleak eyes,
for my birthplace, lost for all time, and drowned now.
Nothing heals my heart in its endless sorrow,
mourning my lost land.
See: her enemies have prevailed, are puffed proud;
see: her children wander the world, are scattered
over many lands, for her enemies rule
over all known lands.
Let the lands' pride lead to their needed downfall,
let them drown so deep in their insolent pride,
till the world is free from the taint of humans
lost to redemption.
poem by Phillip Ellis
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Another Pyramid
Sad to say our mighty ruler
Is not really in the pink
Hopes could not be minuscular
That he'll come back from the brink
Not to beat around the bush
He looks like heading for his box
At the risk of seeming pushy
We must plan for future shocks
According to the hawk of Horus
Our most regal invalid
Is not that much longer for us
Build another pyramid
Build it, build it
Another pyramid
build it, build it
Though all doctors and physicians
Have been summoned to his bed
It'll soon be top morticians
We'll be calling for instead
With each wheeze the nation's humming
Egypt shakes with every cough
No two ways about what's coming
No discussion, bets are off
Soon our monarch will have filled the tomb
Just like his fathers did
Summon Egypt's greatest builder
Need another pyramid
Build it, build it
Another pyramid
Build it, build it
We hate to depress the nation
But our leader has been told
He should scrub his next vacation
Even put tonight on hold
This is where his loyal priesthood
Has the chance to do him proud
Holy leaders at the least should
See him happy to his shroud
He must have a vault that's grand by
Any standards for to live
Put five thousand slaves on standby
Build another pyramid
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Nightmare
I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by:
The world forgot that such a man as I
Had ever lived and written: other names
Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die.
Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew.
Its roots transpierced my body, through and through,
My substance fed its growth. From many lands
Men came in troops that giant tree to view.
'T was sacred to my memory and fame
My monument. But Allen Forman came,
Filled with the fervor of a new untruth,
And carved upon the trunk his odious name!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Testing God
Israel wandered for 40 years and died in the desert they had trod,
For after being delivered, ten different times they had tested God.
While Moses waited for God's deliverance, the people asked God why.
Was it because of no graves in Egypt we were brought out here to die?
They complained about the waters at Marah and God made them sweet,
Again they complained about water and again their needs God did meet.
Again they complained about dieing this time about starving to death,
God had Mercy again as He could have destroyed them in one breath.
When God gave them manna, they didn't listen to what Moses did say,
As they gathered more than allowed and gathered on the Sabbath Day.
Even when Moses went up on mountain for forty days on their behalf,
The people cried for a god to lead them and Aaron made a golden calf.
No longer were God's people in bondage in Egypt as mistreated slaves,
But God heard them complaining of hardships brought on by the change.
God had feed them manna each day, yet they began crave other food,
And because they longed for Egypt, God's Righteous wrath had ensued.
The last straw came when they refused to trust in God's Mighty Hand,
Many chose to return to Egypt instead of pursuing The Promised Land.
We're warned to learn from Israel, so not to go where they had trod,
As even today it's dreadful to fall into the hands of the living God.
Night Over Egypt
Wansel / Biggs)
There's a sky in the east
Over pyramids at Giza
Where there once lived a girl
She ruled the world
Then down the nile
He came with a smile
He was the king
She was the queen
Under the moonlight
Your eyes won't believe
What your mind can't concieve
Oooh
Nights over Egypt
Nights over Egypt
Nights over Egypt
Incense & myrrh
And girls that swirl
To the music
Nights over Egypt
Women fellahin
Wear veils to been seen
By no one
Take a caravan across
The sudan
Saharan fagade
Is just a mirage
Oasis in the sand
Where life once began
Under the moonlight
Your eyes won't believe
What your mind can't concieve
Nights over Egypt
Nights over Egypt
Nights over Egypt
Nights over Egypt
song performed by by Incognito
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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War + Lives - add Love = Freedom
A nation born from war, for the “purpose” of establishing freedom
A nation divided in war, in an “attempt” to fulfill the goal of freedom
A nation engaged in world wars, in the task of “preserving” freedom
A nation policing the world, in the “pursuit” of freedom
So many young lives have been lost, for the “cause” of freedom
Let us remember those who paid the “ultimate price, ” for freedom
And dear God, please tell us! - “What! ” - is freedom?
“Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing
To play in face of certain defeat.” Ralph Ellison
'We need not war'
We need not war, to show us how freedom is made
What we need is love to show us how freedom is played.
For freedom is not - but to “do as we please”
But rather to “please others” - because of what we achieve
“To serve requires love, only with love to we attain freedom”
poem by Dave Tanguay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nights Over Egypt
(wansel / biggs)
Theres a sky in the east
Over pyramids at giza
Where there once lived a girl
She ruled the world
Then down the nile
He came with a smile
He was the king
She was the queen
Under the moonlight
Your eyes wont believe
What your mind cant concieve
Oooh
Nights over egypt
Nights over egypt
Nights over egypt
Incense & myrrh
And girls that swirl
To the music
Nights over egypt
Women fellahin
Wear veils to been seen
By no one
Take a caravan across
The sudan
Saharan fagade
Is just a mirage
Oasis in the sand
Where life once began
Under the moonlight
Your eyes wont believe
What your mind cant concieve
Nights over egypt
Nights over egypt
Nights over egypt
Nights over egypt
song performed by by Incognito
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Egypt
(9/15/12)
Stories have been written, movies have been shown
Of this land of mystery the world has known.
"Egypt"
History and bibles tell of the plights
Of pyramids being built for the pharaohs delight.
Stories have been told of an unknown civilization
Who showed them how to build this nation.
It is said they came from out of space
To teach technology to the human race.
Why was these structures built in the desert sands
Where it took thousands of lives
And millions of hands.
The story of aliens is a tale you see
Which was made up for you and me.
Take a trip down the Nile
And visualize that for a while.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Burden of Nineveh
In our Museum galleries
To-day I lingered o'er the prize
Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes,—
Her Art for ever in fresh wise
From hour to hour rejoicing me.
Sighing I turned at last to win
Once more the London dirt and din;
And as I made the swing-door spin
And issued, they were hoisting in
A wingèd beast from Nineveh.
A human face the creature wore,
And hoofs behind and hoofs before,
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er.
'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur,
A dead disbowelled mystery:
The mummy of a buried faith
Stark from the charnel without scathe,
Its wings stood for the light to bathe,—
Such fossil cerements as might swathe
The very corpse of Nineveh.
The print of its first rush-wrapping,
Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing.
What song did the brown maidens sing,
From purple mouths alternating,
When that was woven languidly?
What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd,
What songs has the strange image heard?
In what blind vigil stood interr'd
For ages, till an English word
Broke silence first at Nineveh?
Oh when upon each sculptured court,
Where even the wind might not resort,—
O'er which Time passed, of like import
With the wild Arab boys at sport,—
A living face looked in to see:—
Oh seemed it not—the spell once broke—
As though the carven warriors woke,
As though the shaft the string forsook,
The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook,
And there was life in Nineveh?
On London stones our sun anew
The beast's recovered shadow threw.
(No shade that plague of darkness knew,
No light, no shade, while older grew
By ages the old earth and sea.)
Lo thou! could all thy priests have shown
Such proof to make thy godhead known?
From their dead Past thou liv'st alone;
And still thy shadow is thine own,
Even as of yore in Nineveh.
That day whereof we keep record,
When near thy city-gates the Lord
Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd,
This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd
Even thus this shadow that I see.
This shadow has been shed the same
From sun and moon,—from lamps which came
For prayer,—from fifteen days of flame,
The last, while smouldered to a name
Sardanapalus' Nineveh.
Within thy shadow, haply, once
Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons
Smote him between the altar-stones:
Or pale Semiramis her zones
Of gold, her incense brought to thee,
In love for grace, in war for aid: . . .
Ay, and who else? . . . till 'neath thy shade
Within his trenches newly made
Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd—
Not to thy strength—in Nineveh.
Now, thou poor god, within this hall
Where the blank windows blind the wall
From pedestal to pedestal,
The kind of light shall on thee fall
Which London takes the day to be:
While school-foundations in the act
Of holiday, three files compact,
Shall learn to view thee as a fact
Connected with that zealous tract:
“ROME,—Babylon and Nineveh.”
Deemed they of this, those worshippers,
When, in some mythic chain of verse
Which man shall not again rehearse,
The faces of thy ministers
Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy?
Greece, Egypt, Rome,—did any god
Before whose feet men knelt unshod
Deem that in this unblest abode
Another scarce more unknown god
Should house with him, from Nineveh?
Ah! in what quarries lay the stone
From which this pillared pile has grown,
Unto man's need how long unknown,
Since those thy temples, court and cone,
Rose far in desert history?
Ah! what is here that does not lie
All strange to thine awakened eye?
Ah! what is here can testify
(Save that dumb presence of the sky)
Unto thy day and Nineveh?
Why, of those mummies in the room
Above, there might indeed have come
One out of Egypt to thy home,
An alien. Nay, but were not some
Of these thine own “antiquity”?
And now,—they and their gods and thou
All relics here together,—now
Whose profit? whether bull or cow,
Isis or Ibis, who or how,
Whether of Thebes or Nineveh?
The consecrated metals found,
And ivory tablets, underground,
Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd.
When air and daylight filled the mound,
Fell into dust immediately.
And even as these, the images
Of awe and worship,—even as these,—
So, smitten with the sun's increase,
Her glory mouldered and did cease
From immemorial Nineveh.
The day her builders made their halt,
Those cities of the lake of salt
Stood firmly 'stablished without fault,
Made proud with pillars of basalt,
With sardonyx and porphyry.
The day that Jonah bore abroad
To Nineveh the voice of God,
A brackish lake lay in his road,
Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode,
As then in royal Nineveh.
The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's,
Showed all the kingdoms at a glance
To Him before whose countenance
The years recede, the years advance,
And said, Fall down and worship me:—
'Mid all the pomp beneath that look,
Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke,
Where to the wind the Salt Pools shook,
And in those tracts, of life forsook,
That knew thee not, O Nineveh!
Delicate harlot! On thy throne
Thou with a world beneath thee prone
In state for ages sat'st alone;
And needs were years and lustres flown
Ere strength of man could vanquish thee:
Whom even thy victor foes must bring,
Still royal, among maids that sing
As with doves' voices, taboring
Upon their breasts, unto the King,—
A kingly conquest, Nineveh!
. . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway
Had waxed; and like the human play
Of scorn that smiling spreads away,
The sunshine shivered off the day:
The callous wind, it seemed to me,
Swept up the shadow from the ground:
And pale as whom the Fates astound,
The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd:
Within I knew the cry lay bound
Of the dumb soul of Nineveh.
And as I turned, my sense half shut
Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut
Go past as marshalled to the strut
Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut.
It seemed in one same pageantry
They followed forms which had been erst;
To pass, till on my sight should burst
That future of the best or worst
When some may question which was first,
Of London or of Nineveh.
For as that Bull-god once did stand
And watched the burial-clouds of sand,
Till these at last without a hand
Rose o'er his eyes, another land,
And blinded him with destiny:—
So may he stand again; till now,
In ships of unknown sail and prow,
Some tribe of the Australian plough
Bear him afar,—a relic now
Of London, not of Nineveh!
Or it may chance indeed that when
Man's age is hoary among men,—
His centuries threescore and ten,—
His furthest childhood shall seem then
More clear than later times may be:
Who, finding in this desert place
This form, shall hold us for some race
That walked not in Christ's lowly ways,
But bowed its pride and vowed its praise
Unto the God of Nineveh.
The smile rose first,—anon drew nigh
The thought: . . . Those heavy wings spread high,
So sure of flight, which do not fly;
That set gaze never on the sky;
Those scriptured flanks it cannot see;
Its crown, a brow-contracting load;
Its planted feet which trust the sod: . . .
(So grew the image as I trod
O Nineveh, was this thy God,—
Thine also, mighty Nineveh?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Pharaohs of Today
Pain and labor of oppression gave the Western world its birth,
From such shores the love of freedom ne'er should perish from the earth;
To a conscience that's awakened, these are words to make it start,
'Each oppressor of a human buys himself a hardened heart!'
'Twas the sixties broke the shackles from the body of the slave,
Which was only half his freedom, for his mind we now must save.
Liberty of his opinion, such as other people use
Give him all that makes for manhood, and the same he'll not abuse.
True, the God of ancient Israel loves the Negro of today,
Many proofs are had in common of the truth of what I say;
For the stronger the oppression made them multiply and grow,
Of the Negro in this country quite the same is true, you know.
'Give him freedom,' says the white man, 'will defeat our greatest plan,
With his freedom here's the trouble, he'll aspire to be a man.
Men will scorn to suffer treatment on the level of a brute,
Safest way to keep them subjects is their manhood to dispute.'
Ancient Pharaoh was a pagan, bowing down to wood and stone,
Deeds today of Christian Pharaohs would disgrace the ancient throne.
Leaguers now with Satan's kingdom from their plans he never parts,
Such oppressors of a human pay the price of hardened hearts!
Pharaoh's cruelty in Egypt filled the Israelites with pain,
Thus his heart was fully hardened out of love for earthly gain.
For the same he met destruction; to his rashness it was due,
Modern Pharaohs, his example may a lesson bring to you!
When the Jews for wrong decided, then the nation lost its rank.
Rome, debauched in gross corruption, into degradation sank.
Sins of national importance bring calamities the same,
Just as true as it is ancient, sin will bring the nation shame.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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Applegarth
There is a garden where the sun
reflects from rough cast whitewashed walls.
Close by the quiet river runs
here you can hear the soft bird calls.
The scents of lavender and sage,
which grow near to the lilac trees.
Compete with fields of blue borage
ich draw to them the questing bees.
The lawn of moorland turf is neat
and everywhere the flowers bloom.
The honey smell of meadowsweet
is mingling with the perfumed broom.
This garden is a sheltered spot.
Where old and tired from the fray
I sit and doze when it is hot
and ponder in my quiet way.
I think about the things I’ve seen
and well loved people I have known
The many places I have been
in travels ‘fore I was full grown.
My wandering feet have carried me
to distant lands of snow and ice.
Some lands without a single tree
and tropic isles like paradise.
I always yearned to go back home
but there was always more to see
When I was young I had to roam
across the world by land and sea.
My questing mind gave me no peace
hard lessons I was forced to learn.
Wisdom granted me release
a truth I found I had to earn.
The fire of youth burns low with age.
springy step turns to measured tread
I learnt my quest was a mirage
and came back to where I was bred
Although it’s changed it’s still the same.
I see it now through different eyes
and seek no more for fortunes fame.
I realise to my surprise
I need not have travelled at all.
As all the knowledge I’ve obtained
I could have gained within ths walls
of this small garden.Now maintained
by younger men in their full strength.
Who serve me with touching awe
As one who’s seen the breadth and length
Of the whole world.As he sought for
the secrets other lands could show.
Whose been to Canada and Rome.
Seen desert lands and fields of snow
But has returned at last to home.
A field stone house with roof of thatch,
a garden sheltered from the wind.
There was nowhere else could match
the dream he carried in his mind.
Of Applegarth, old Applegarth
a house that’s filled with memories
It’s been his family’s home and hearth
for nigh on seven hundred years.
There’s little left of the wide lands
This proud family used to own
but what there is Is my homeland.
belongs to me and me alone.
This quiet garden in the sun
the Rowan tree that provides shade.
I know my race is nearly run
and wonder if I made the grade.
Each morn I wake and greet the day.
Determined that I will enjoy
Whatever treats may come my way
As carefree as a little boy
The little boy I used to be
Before my wanderlust took hold
and drove me overland and sea.
I only learned as I grew old
That I could live contentedly
at Applegarth and only here.
Where I was always meant to be
a message I was slow to hear.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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