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All The Talents

When the broad-bottom
'd Junto, with reason at strife,
Resign'd, with a sigh, its political life;
When converted to Rome, and of honesty tired,
They gave back to the Devil the soul he inspired.

The Demon of Faction, that over them hung,
In accents of horror their epitaph sung;
While Pride and Venality join'd in the stave,
And canting Democracy wept at the grave.

'Here lies in the tomb that we hollow'd for Pitt,
'Consistence
of Grenville, of Temple the wit;
'Of Sidmouth the firmness, the temper of Grey,
'And Treasurer Sheridan's promise to pay.

'Here Petty's finance, from the evils to come,
'With Fitzpatrick'
s sobriety creeps to the tomb;
'And Chancellor Ego, now left in the lurch,
'Neither dines with the Jordan, nor whines for the church.

'Then huzza for the Party that here is at rest,
'By the fools of a faction regretted and blest;
'Though they sleep with the Devil, yet theirs is the 'hope,
'On the downfall of Britain to rise with the Pope.'

poem by George Canning
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The next to last pew

An old man was at church last Sunday
He sat in the next to last pew
I slid into the seat right next to him
And gave a him a friendly “hi-dee-do”

He gave me a nod with his time worn brow
Then swiveled his head all around
While his gaze sized up the parishioners
His ears seemed to soak up their sound

His sad gaze seemed to pick out each person
One by one, as he seemed to stare into their soul
To some he nodded, in an approving way
While to others his look was ice cold

I asked if he was a member of this church
I said I wasn’t familiar with him, was he new?
He smiled a soft smile and shook his head no
Said “I’m here most of the time…
here in this next to last pew”

I said “what do you think of our little church”
He rubbed his hands through his hair of silver grey
Looked deep in my eyes and gave a soft, sad sigh
And said “you may not like what I have to say”

He said “ Son, I can see into the soul of these people
And to you, what I say is on the level”
That Most are fools in the eyes of the Lord
The rest are pawns in the hands of the devil

I looked all around at my fellow church-goers
Of whom he spoke, I knew of more than a few
And when I turned back to allow “that could be so”
I was all alone in the next to last pew!

poem by David Whalen
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Too Late

HOPE? What! hope !—you say there is hope for the long-lost one!
Hope! when the light is out; hope! when the oil is done;
Hope! No, no, good lady! no hope for me, at least;
No home for me but the clammy grave when life has ceased.
Hope! Well, there might have been hope had my mother lived; but, then,
5
God struck her dead, and I was left alone among men.
God knows how I loved her; and shall I never see her again?
Is there no glimpse of heaven for those who are doomed to pain?
Oh, cannot she come and kiss me? Oh, cannot she pray by my side,
As she did long ago on that terrible evening before she died?
10
If she prayed God would hear her, and perhaps—but no;
I'm too old a sinner for mercy—there is nothing for me but woe.

You say that I yet could be saved if I sorrowed for my sin;
That the Lord is at heaven's gate to take poor sinners in!
God knows that I hate my sin, but I feel that it cannot be;

15
I've so often forsaken Him, that He must have forsaken me.
Nay, don't offer a prayer for me, lady, it's only mocking at God:
Who knows but my tired heart still may rest beneath the sod?
For I always loved the sunny fields and the sweet, sweet flowers,
And longed to be pure once again like them, in my better hours.
20

But after I first had fallen the devil opened my eyes,
And I saw that the world knew my shame, and I hadn't the heart to rise;
So I gave up trying to be good, and sank down lower in sin,
Tho' the thought of poor dead mother made me always hate it within.
Oh, many's the night that I've wandered about thro' rain and snow,
25
Wandered about in the street, and didn't know where had to go;
And I've often crept to the river and looked at it, still and black,
And thought how every one spurned me—but something held me back.
I remember how once, when I stopped, half-dead, one rainy day,
To rest on his steps for a moment, the servants drove me away;
30
Drove me away like a dog from the door of the man for whom,
O God! I had given up all in this world and beyond the tomb.
But don't weep at my story, good lady; I'm not worth it living or dead!
Ha, ha! I'm not frightened of Death, nor the devils that dance round my bed:
There cannot be any hell deeper nor fuller of devils and strife
35
Than the hell that burns in my heart, and the fire that eats out life.

poem by Frederick George Scott
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Liberty is to faction, what air is to fire, an ailment without which it instantly expires. But it could not be a less folly to abolish liberty, which is essential to political life, because it nourishes faction, than it would be to wish the annihilation of air, which is essential to animal life, because it imparts to fire its destructive agency.

quote by James Madison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pilot That Weath'd The Storm

If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,
The sky, if no longer dark tempests deform;
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?
No!--Here's to the Pilot who weather'd the storm!

At the foot-stool of Power let flattery fawn,
Let Faction her idols extol to the skies;
To virtue in humble resentment withdrawn,
Unblam'd may the merits of gratitude rise.

And shall not His memory to Britain be dear,
Whose example with envy all nations behold;
A Statesman unbiass'd by int'rest or fear,
By pow'r uncorrupted, untainted by gold?

Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reign'd,
While rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd,
The heart and the hopes of his Country maintain'd,
And one kingdom preserv'd 'midst the wreck of the world.

Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze,
While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine;
When he sinks into twilight, with fondness we gaze,
And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline.

Lo! Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er,
Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall!
Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore;
Admir'd in thy zenith, but lov'd in thy fall!

O! take, then--for dangers by wisdom repell'd,
For evils, by courage and constancy brav'd--
O take! for a throne by thy counsels upheld,
The thanks of a people thy firmness has sav'd!

And O! if again the rude whirlwind should rise!
The dawning of Peace should fresh darkness deform,
The regrets of the good, and the fears of the wise,
Shall turn to the Pilot that weather'd the storm!

poem by George Canning
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A Song

Sitting at His table one day,
God and the devil a game did play;
Hated humanity was at stake;
Well, the first picked Bonaparte;
The other drew, and for his part,
'Twas Mastai that he did take.

Impoverished abbey, thin as a sprite!
Petty prince, small and filled with spite,
Truly a thoughtless brat!
Oh what a worthless pot!
'Twas God that had the losing lot
So the devil won them both at that.

God the Father cried, 'Take them you!
You will not know what to do
With them'; the devil laughed; 'Good sir-
That's where you're wrong,' the devil said,
And of the one a pope he made,
And of the other an emperor.

poem by Victor Hugo
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Lost Soul To An Angel....

I am a devil who
lost his soul to an angel

Pretty face with pretty eyes
Devil I am, all dark inside
Saw you once or maybe twice
Lost my ways and I cannot hide
whenever you look at me,
I lose my mind

I am a devil who
lost his soul to an angel
I am a rebel who
lost his cause to a lover

You saved me from myself
you promised me salvation
through your Love
I promise, I will not leave you to
someone else

Now I wait for your invite
to be on your side,
under bright light,
where you might,
take me inside,
inside your church of love
give me a another chance
(so) I can prove
that..

I am a devil who
lost his soul to an angel
I am a rebel who
lost his cause to a lover

I am a devil who
lost his soul to an angel
I am a devil who
lost his soul to an angel

poem by Khalid Hameed
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Hate

I had a bitter enemy,
His heart to hate he gave,
And when I died he swore that he
Would dance upon my grave;
That he would leap and laugh because
A livid corpse was I,
And that's the reason why I was
In no great haste to die.

And then - such is the quirk of fate,
One day with joy I read,
Despite his vitalizing hate
My enemy was dead.
Maybe the poison in his heart
Had helped to haste his doom:
He was not spared till I depart
To spit upon my tomb.

The other day I chanced to go
To where he lies alone.
'Tis easy to forgive a foe
When he is dead and gone. . . .
Poor devil! Now his day is done,
(Though bright it was and brave,)
Yet I am happy there is none
To dance upon my grave.

poem by Robert William Service
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The Open Door

O Mystery of life,
That, after all our strife,
Defeats, mistakes,
Just as, at last, we see
The road to victory,
The tired heart breaks.

Just as the long years give
Knowledge of how to live,
Life's end draws near;
As if, that gift being ours,
God needed our new powers
In worlds elsewhere.

There, if the soul whose wings
Were won in suffering, springs
To life anew,
Justice would have some room
For hope beyond the tomb,
And mercy, too.

And since, without this dream
No light, no faintest gleam
Answers our 'why';
But earth and all its race
Must pass and leave no trace
On that blind sky;

Shall reason close that door
On all we struggled for,
Seal the soul's doom;
Make of this universe
One wild answering curse,
One lampless tomb?

Mine be the dream, the creed
That leaves for God, indeed,
For God, and man,
One open door whereby
To prove His world no lie
And crown His plan.

poem by Alfred Noyes
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A Dirge of Joy

Oh! this is a joyful dirge, my friends, and this is a hymn of praise;
And this is a clamour of Victory, and a pæan of Ancient Days.
It isn’t a Yelp of the Battlefield; nor a Howl of the Bounding Wave,
But an ode to the Things that the War has Killed, and a lay of the Festive Grave.
’Tis a triolet of the Tomb, you bet, and a whoop because of Despair,
And it’s sung as I stand on my hoary head and wave my legs in the air!
Oh! I dance on the grave of the Suffragette (I dance on my hands and dome),
And the Sanctity-of-the-Marriage-Tie and the Breaking-Up-of-the-Home.
And I dance on the grave of the weird White-Slave that died when the war began;
And Better-Protection-for-Women-and-Girls, and Men-Made-Laws-for-Man!

Oh, I dance on the Liberal Lady’s grave and the Labour Woman’s, too;
And the grave of the Female lie and shriek, with a dance that is wild and new.
And my only regret in this song-a-let as I dance over dale and hill,
Is the Yarn-of-the-Wife and the Tale-of-the-Girl that never a war can kill.

Oh, I dance on the grave of the want-ter-write, and I dance on the Tomb of the Sneer,
And poet-and-author-and-critic, too, who used to be great round here.
But “Old Mother Often” (“Mother of Ten”) and “Parent” escaped from the grave—
And “Pro Bono Publico” liveth again, as “Victis,” or “Honour the Brave.”

Oh, lightly I danced upon Politics’ grave where the Friend of the Candidate slept,
And over the Female Political Devil, oh wildly I bounded and leapt.
But this dance shall be nothing compared with the dance of the spook of the writer who sings
On the grave of the bard and the Bulletin’s grave, out there at the Finish of Things!

poem by Henry Lawson
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Devil- Child

You are devil, I am demon,
What is your name?
Is it blessed or in shame,
Or are demonstrations always to blame?
My wife is forceful, enforcer of work,
And brutal. Why do seconds tick as mind?
The desks of writing worsen mentality
When students are devil and demon,
For they copy and cheat, worse than hell,
And hell is forever a bad place,
A situation I am not in, and neither you.
Simple statements will hide the devil in you,
If you are.
Complex statements are against the state,
And you are responsible.
You are the devil incarnate,
I am an arch-demon.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Tired Of Gettin Nowhere

Chorus:
Im tired of gettin nowhere, wish I was inspired, but its just not there
I hope this doesnt last, cause Im tired of gettin nowhere fast
Woke up this morning and went back to sleep
The sun was pourin and the rain was gettin deep
I dont know what Im supposed to do
cause everywhere I turn, I wind up headin back to you
I dont know how long I will lay here in this bed
Staring at the ceiling, going crazy in my head
Got to find some meaning, some kind of reason to go on
The only one I had was you and now youre gone, and
Chorus
My friends all tell me I should mellow out
Surely Ive got better things to think about
Must be something I can find to help me lose these blues
But the only thing thats on my mind, is standing in your shoes
Chorus
Youd think by now Id be exactly where I want to be
Got what I need, know what I need to know
Im all dressed up but without you theres nowhere to go
(solo)
Ooh, youd think by now Id be exactly where I want to be
Got what I need, know what I need to know
Im all dressed up but without you theres nowhere to go
And Im so tired of gettin nowhere
Wish I was inspired, but its just not there
I hope this doesnt last, cause Im tired of gettin
Tired of gettin, tired of gettin nowhere
Im tired of gettin nowhere, so real tired of gettin nowhere
Tired of gettin nowhere, tired, tired of gettin
Im tired of gettin nowhere, ooh yeah, wont you say it, ooh yeah
Tired of gettin nowhere fast - get some rest!

song performed by by Reo Speedwagon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elijah's Mantle

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT.
When, by th' Almighty's dread command
Elijah, call'd from Israel's land,
Rose in the sacred flame,
His Mantle good Elisha caught,
And, with the Prophet's spirit fraught,
Her second hope became.

In Pitt our Israel saw combined
The Patriot's heart--the Prophet's mind,
Elijah's spirit here:
Now, sad reverse!--that spirit reft,
No confidence, no hope is left;
For no Elijah's near.

Is there, among the greedy band
Who've seized on power, with harpy hand,
And Patriot, worth assume,
One on whom public faith can rest--
One fit to wear Elijah's vest,
And cheer a Nation's gloom?

Grenville!--to aid thy Treasury fame,
A portion of Pitt's Mantle claim,
His gen'rous ardour feel;
Resolve, 'bove sordid self, to soar,
Amidst Exchequer gold be poor!
Thy wealth--the public weal.

Fox!--if on thee some remnant fall,
The shred may to thy mind recall,
Those hours of loud debate,
When thy unhallow'd lips be-praised
"The glorious fabric" traitors raised
An Bourbon's fallen state.

Thy soul let Pitt's example fire,
With patriot zeal thy tongue inspire,
Spite of thy Gallic leaven;
And teach thee in thy latest day,
His form of prayer, (if thou canst pray)
"O save my country, Heaven!

Windham,--if e'er thy sorrows flow
For private loss or public woe,
Thy rigid bow unbend:
Tears over Cæsar Brutus shed,
His hatred warr'd not with the dead--
And Pitt was once thy friend.

Does Envy bid thee not to mourn?
Hold then his Mantle up to scorn,
His well-earn'd fame assail:
Of funeral honors stript his corse,
And at his virtues till thou'rt hoarse,
Like curst Thersites rail!

Illustrious Roscius of the State!
New-breech'd and harness'd for debate,
Thou wonder of thy age!
Petty or Betty art thou height,
By Granta sent to strut thy night
On Stephen's bustling stage.

Pitt's 'Chequer robe 'tis thine to wear;
Take of his Mantle too a share,
'Twill aid thy Ways and Means;
And should Fat Jack, and his Cabal;
Cry "Rob us the Exchequer, Hal!"
'Twill charm away the fiends.

Sage Palinurus of the realm!
By Vincent call'd to take the helm!
And play his proxy's part;
Dost thou or star or compass know?
Canst reef aloft--or hand below?
Past conn'd the shipman's chart?

No!--From Pitt's Mantle tear a rag,
Enough to serve thee for a flag,
And hoist it on thy mast:
Beneath that sign (our prosperous star)
Shall future Nelsons rush to war,
And rival victories past.

Sidmouth--though low his head is laid
Who call'd thee from thy native shade,
An gave thee second birth;
Gave thee the sweets of Power and Place,
The tufted gown--the gilded mace,
And rear'd thy puny worth:

Think how his Mantle wrapp'd thee round:
Is one of equal virtue found
Among thy new compeers?
Or can thy cloak of Amiens stuff,
Once laugh'd to scorn by Blue and Buff,
Screen thee from Windham's jeers?

When Faction threaten'd Britain's land
Thy new-made friends--a desperate band,
Like Ahab--stood reproved:
Pitt's powerful tongue their rage could check;
His counsel saved, 'midst General wreck,
The Israel that he loved.

Yes, honor'd shade! whilst near thy grave
The letter'd sage, and chieftain brave,
The votive marble claim;
O'er thy cold corse--the public tear
Congeal'd, a crystal shrine shall rear,
Unsullied as thy fame!

poem by George Canning
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Cul-De-Sac

COULD I hope that when the brain,
Tired of questions answerless,
Shall slip off the bonds of pain
That enslave it and possess,
I should know how little worth
Were the little things of earth.

'Does it matter,' could I say,
'Whether she were false or true?
Whether life was gold or grey?
Whether skies were grey or blue?
All this matters less, it seems,
Than the threads of broken dreams.'

We may long to rest from strife,
Cease to question or to grieve;
But the sharpest ills of life
Nothing will reverse, retrieve;
For when we at last have rest,
We shall know not we are blest.

While we know, we have the ache;
Consciousness with pain will cease.
Sleep's joy comes not while we wake--
Night of life means dawn of peace,
But of peace which cannot be
Ever known by her or me.

Bow the back beneath the cross,
Stagger on a few steps more,
Bear the doubt, the strain, the loss,
As we had to do before!
When at last the burdens fall,
We shall know it not at all.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Demon Alcohol

Im sick and tired of your excuses
Cant deal with living anymore
Ill give you reasons to continue
While you lie writing on the floor
Ill wash away your lies
And have you hypnotized
Therell be no compromise today
Ill share your life of shame
I think you know my name
Ill introduce myself today
Im the demon alcohol
Demon alcohol
Ill get you
If you could deal with your reflection
Im sure youd see into my eyes
Therell be no need for resurrection
Lets drink to people of the lies
Although that ones too much
You know tens not enough
Therell be no compromise today
Ill watch you lose control
Consume your very soul
Ill introduce myself today
Im the demon alcohol
Demon alcohol
Ha ha
Demon alcohol
Demon alcohol, lets party
(demon alcohol)
(Im the demon alcohol)
Im sick and tired of resolutions
Youve quit me time and time again
Dont speak of suicide solutions
You took my hand, Im here to stay
This time its you or me
Ill never set you free
Therell be no compromise today
So satisfy your lust
Too much cant be enough
Ill introduce myself today
Im the demon alcohol
The demon alcohol
Aha
Demon alcohol
Demon alcohol
Lets party

song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patriotism 02 Nelson, Pitt, Fox

TO mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given.
Where'er his country's foes were found
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd--and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain's weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave!
--His worth, who in his mightiest hour
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver voice is still,
The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall with fateful sway
The steerage of the realm gave way.
Then--while on Britain's thousand plains
One polluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still upon the hallow'd day
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear:--
He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy Requiescat dumb
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employ'd, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow--
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
Here, where the fretted vaults prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
'All peace on earth, good-will to men';
If ever from an English heart,
O, here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was barter'd by a timorous slave--
Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd,
The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nail'd her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave;
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd,
How high they soar'd above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look'd up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
Where--taming thought to human pride!--
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier;
O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry,
'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Rest in Death

My soul rest from bounty days and years.
With generosity, you gave me long life...thank you!

Now, family and friends surround me with love
Read this poem I wrote for you, don't
wake me let me sleep.
Spirit needs to rest in peace.
Ring the bells and beat the drums.
Fill mouths with songs and eyes with hope.

Turn your heads toward the past.
Recite and paint it magical meanings,
Let songs and poems be my epitaph,
And a soft bed upon my soul rest

Weep not for me family and friends,
Raise your chin up like a rose
raising it petals to dawn.
Speak not of flowery deeds, instead
plant each step In life's garden.

Circle my tomb, sing my last song;
recite my last poem, touch my face,
my smiling lips and silent eyes.
Now my friends, my children, your children
and their children, go back...

Gather memories, place them in
Picture frames, dresser drawers,
and backpacks.
All these death can't take.
You, others, still others…now leave!
Go back to your dwellings
As I rest with death.

May 8,2010

poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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Patriotism 2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox