The Garlands
KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer for laurel
May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us;
Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting
High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour!
Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together,
Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one:
There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his numbers,
Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent
And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation
There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering
Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Related quotes
He Is That Man
He is that man who sent young men to die
In battle underneath a foreign sky
And wars are never won if lives are lost
In human life how can one count the cost.
He is that man who led the big parade
And to him went the victory accolade
The men who died for him are now forgot
And he the hero never fired one shot.
He is that man with hair of silvery gray
A hero then a hero still today
He took the fame the honour and the pride
And many young men for his ego died.
He is that man who with his wife on sunday
Go to the house of God to kneel and pray
But still the taint of sin with him will stay
Of young lives lost for him so far away.
The hurt of loss with mothers will remain
Due to this man who caused such grief and pain
He sent their sons beyond the sea to die
In battle underneath a foreign sky.
He is that man with hair of silvery gray
A hero then a hero still today
The men who died for him are now forgot
And he the hero never fired one shot.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Who Hath The Courage?
Who hath courage? Not the hero
Leading in the strife,
To receive a nation's plaudits,
For his waste of life.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He alone who dares
Act up to his own convictions,
And the right declares.
Who hath courage? Not the tyrant
Boasting of his skill,
To enslave and bind his fellow
At his simple will.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that doth proclaim,
Unto all their right to freedom,
Every man the same.
Who hath courage? Not the sober,
Or untempted one,
Who hath never had his stomach
Eaten out by rum.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He who though he may
Have been using poison freely,
Throws the cup away.
Who hath courage? Not the daring,
Reckless pugilist,
Who for wager smites a brother,
With uplifted fist.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that won't resent
Every little insult given
With a base intent.
poem by Benjamin Cutler Clark
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The Curse Has Killed The Laurel Tree
The power of Dracula's curse is felt everywhere in Transylvania
The countryside is run down
The towns are feeling older than they should
Bridges are broken apart in pieces
And the minions of the undead grow in numbers more and more every day
And interestingly enough
Someway, somehow
The curse has killed the laurel tree
Walking up to the laurel tree
While protecting myself from the effects of evil
While being blessed in the time of sunlight
I can tell the laurel tree is so far gone
I can tell it's dead
And in my heart, I feel its pain
I feel for it, I really do
Because it didn't deserve this fate
And to the people as well as myself
We all could've prayed for the laurel tree to survive
We all could've prayed for a miracle
But now it's too late
The curse has killed the laurel tree
poem by Justin Gildow
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You breathed Your last breath for me
'Heavenly Father, not My will, but Yours, ' You cried
then went to the hill of Golgotha where You died.
There upon Calvary's cross You breathed Your last breath
even though You had power over hell and death.
The angels were not able to understand why
the Immortal God had to bow His head and die.
For they were unaware of the eternal plan
that the Triune God agreed before time began.
In that great counsel You said, 'Here I am Send me.'
Willing You were, to hang upon that awful tree.
Willing, to carry my sins in Your body there.
Willing in my place the full wrath of God to bear.
Because of You, Lord Jesus I can now go free.
Because You have laid down your life at Calvary.
Because You hung on that cruel cross in my stead.
Because Your precious blood for me has been shed.
*************
Now I know that when the time comes for my last breath
that my life will not just end in my earthly death.
There in the shadow of death You will lead me through
to spend an eternity in heaven with You.
E.b.b.
THE WHITE-ROSE garland at her feet,
The crown of laurel at her head,
Her noble life on earth complete,
Lay her in the last low bed
For the slumber calm and deep:
“He giveth His belovèd sleep.”
Soldiers find their fittest grave
In the field whereon they died;
So her spirit pure and brave
Leaves the clay it glorified
To the land for which she fought
With such grand impassioned thought.
Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,
She in well-loved Tuscan earth;
Finding all their death’s long home
Far from their old home of birth.
Italy, you hold in trust
Very sacred English dust.
Therefore this one prayer I breathe,—
That you yet may worthy prove
Of the heirlooms they bequeath
Who have loved you with such love:
Fairest land while land of slaves
Yields their free souls no fit graves.
poem by James Thomson
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The Death-Day Of Korner
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die!
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his Father-land.
And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.
And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.
And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful beautiful and bright,
In life and death!
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Licia Sonnets 01
Bright matchless star, the honour of the sky,
From whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light,
I send these poems to your graceful eye;
Do you but take them, and they have their right.
I build besides a temple to your name,
Wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise;
And will erect an altar for the same,
Which shall your virtues and your honour raise.
But heaven the temple of your honour is,
Whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud;
The ground an altar, base for such a bliss
With pity torn, because I sighed so loud.
And since my skill no worship can impart,
Make you an incense of my loving heart.
Sad, all alone, not long I musing sat,
But that my thoughts compelled me to aspire;
A laurel garland in my hand I gat,
So the Muses I approached the nigher.
My suit was this, a poet to become,
To drink with them, and from the heavens be fed.
Phoebus denied, and sware there was no room,
Such to be poets as fond fancy led.
With that I mourned and sat me down to weep;
Venus she smiled, and smiling to me said,
Come drink with me, and sit thee still, and sleep.
This voice I heard; and Venus I obeyed.
That poison sweet hath done me all this wrong,
For now of love must needs be all my song.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Angels Are Not Saints
angels are not saints, we do believe that they exist
they can even transform themselves into human for
form, but still remain to what they are in their natural
phenomenon
they are called by many names, they too have rank to
obey, for angels lives like us, who work and have task
given by their master, in some moments we see them,
as they appears everyone notice them for angels, are
favorite images in every literature
angels are not God, that can judge nor an icon to be adored
in the altar that we throne, for only they serve to the master
where they return, in God's wisdom they are form
all angels are holy, but not a saints, as it could be, for only
man's nature reserved to be, by holiness one's sinfulness
make us saint in all eternity
angels is in highest stage, where over and above human sphere,
never that they are superior nor inferior to human lure, for one
mistake subject to be thrown to the fire that burn
angels are angels never be a saints for eternity, for our destiny
they are made, forever they well always lead us, we equal the
same beginning in the image and likeness of God, we took
and shared one love, a breath that last for a lifetime
angels as we, differ from they, who by the one who sent them,
reminds us all, to be, in a nation of saints not of an angel
where we are call
poem by Antonio Liao
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Hero's Acre
Brave Mary Magdalene of Magdala
She stood by Jesus' side after
The treacherous disciples had fled!
She was there when he died on
The cross.Oh Mary! She did not
Cross question and interrogate
The son of God when He demonstrated
How feeble death in reality is!
But don't mention her in
The presence of the pen
Pushers of Hero's Acre!
They will glare at you and
Claim the fame for themselves
Mother Theresa Of The gutters
She worked like a slave in the slum
Woe unto the robbers of Hero's Acre
The credit they say is theirs!
Her name they're content to
Bury in the mud of the gutter
The lesser known Blanche Moyilwa
Was executed by her mother and father
She would not trade her faith for
the known superstitions!
Afterward they claimed her saint's
Powers for themselves and you will
Hear the bosses of Hero's Acre mention
Her name in dark angry undertones
Why is Hero's Acre everywhere manned
By those who worship the power mongers
And not those who worked themselves
To death for the common good of humanity?
And is the world challenged to smell
The putrid dung of gender discrimination
Again? And what are you fighting to do to
Correct the glaring imbalances in Hero's Acre?
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Elegy on the death of Gen. Montgomery
Melpomene, now strike a mournful string,
Montgomery's fate assisting me to sing!
Thou saw him fall upon the hostile plain
Yet ting'd with blood that gush'd from Moncalm's veins,
Where gallant Wolfe for conquest gave his breath,
Where num'rous heroes met the angel Death.
Ah! while the loud reiterated roar
Of cannon echoed on from shore to shore,
Benigner Peace, retiring to the shade,
Had gather'd laurel to adorn his head:
The laurel yet shall grace his bust; but, oh!
America must wear sad cypress now.
Dauntless he led her armies to the war,
Invulnerable was his soul to fear:
When they explor'd their way o'er trackless snows,
Where Life's warm tide thro' every channel froze,
His eloquence made the chill'd bosom glow,
And animated them to meet the foe;
Now flam'd this bright conspicuous grace alone,
The softer virtues in his bosom shone;
It bled with every soldier's recent wound;
He rais'd the fallen vet'ran from the ground;
He wip'd the eye of grief, it ceas'd to flow;
His heart vibrated to each sound of woe:
His heart too good his country to betray
For splendid posts or mercenary pay,
Too great to see a virtuous land opprest,
Nor strive to have her injuries redress'd.
Oh had but Carleton suffer'd in his stead!
Had half idolitrous Canadia bled!
'Tis not for him but for ourselves we grieve,
Like him to die is better than to live;
His urn by a whole nation's tears bedew'd,
His mem'ry blest by all the great and good:
O'er his pale coarse the marble soon shall rise,
And the tall column shoot into the skies;
There long his praise by freemen shall be read,
As softly o'er the hero's dust they tread.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Aeschylos And Sophocles
Sophocles: Thou goest then, and leavest none behind Worthy to rival thee!
Aeschylos: Nay, say not so.
Whose is the hand that now is pressing mine?
A hand I may not ever press again!
What glorious forms hath it brought boldly forth
From Pluto's realm! The blind old Oedipos
Was led on one side by Antigone,
Sophocles propt the other.
Sophocles: Sophocles
Sooth'd not Prometheus chaind upon his rock,
Keeping the vultures and the Gods away;
Sophocles is not greater than the chief
Who conquered Ilion, nor could he revenge
His murder, or stamp everlasting brand
Upon the brow of that adulterous wife.
Aeschylos: Live, and do more.
Thine is the Lemnian ile,
And thou hast placed the arrows in the hand
Of Philoctetes, hast assuaged his wounds
And given his aid without which Greece had fail'd.
Sophocles: I did indeed drive off the pest of flies;
We also have our pest of them which buz
About our honey, darken it, and sting;
We laugh at them, for under hands like ours,
Without the wing that Philoctetes shook,
One single feather crushes the whole swarm.
I must be grave.
Hath Sicily such charms
Above our Athens? Many charms hath she,
But she hath kings. Accursed be the race!
Aeschylos: But where kings honor better men than they
Let kings be honored too.
The laurel crown
Surmounts the golden; wear it, and farewell.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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A Monument For The Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Epic Poem
This poem is epic
so I named it so
it's more epic than wind and snow
which are in there own respects quite epic
snow could be described as ghetto
and wind can take on epic forms
like a spinning tiger with legs made of iron bars
that would be pretty epic
infact I think that happened in outer mongolia
to a young girl how got hit by the iron bars
sadly she died
but the type of death was one we all wish for
over exposure to pure epicness
like viewing a snail with a lightsaber who flies over mountains made of cheese
that's bleedin' epic
imagine it if you can
can you?
I imagined it so according to the ontological arguement
it exists
im scared now
it may be coming to get me
and although I will suffer the best kind of death
it will be death still
and what is death without life
it is simply death
that was mock epic
those statements aren't as deep as you think they are
they are meerly the ramblings of a crazy man
you fell for it did you not
I know you did for I can see you
your PC moniter is actually a camera
If you're paranoid then you will be scared now
and for that reason I laugh
I can see your fear
I smell it
it is like raspberry ripple ice cream
your fear is wierd
I don't like you anymore
this poem is bleedin' epic!
poem by Torben Duncan
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Fallen
O, hadst thou died when thou wert great,
When at thy feet a nation knelt
To sob the gratitude it felt
And thank the Saviour of the State,
Gods might have envied thee thy fate!
Then was the laurel round thy brow,
And friend and foe spoke praise of thee,
While all our hearts sang victory.
Alas! thou art too base to bow
To hide the shame that brands it now.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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War Never Solves Anything
Of battles won and noble soldiers you hear the old balladeer sing
But war only brings death and suffering and war never solves anything
And the mental scars of war keep festering long after the battle does end
You badly injure or kill someone's loved one that person will not be your friend.
For God and the flag of their Nation too many in battle have died
And the Government honour war heroes in their false show of patriotic pride
But the fact is their young lives were wasted and the fact with us sadly remain
That old battles are never over and for old grieviances human blood spilt again.
War weaponry and explosives big business in a World where human life is taken cheap
By some a human life seen as of no more value than that of a cow's or a sheep
From history we have not learned the war supposed to end all wars long gone
Yet every day more violence and terror and war and war mongering lives on.
Of battles won and acts of war bravery so many songs written and sung
And war instigated by old men must always be fought by the young
But the song for the young dead war hero to the hero's mum to it has a bitter ring
And war is a waste of human life for war never solves anything.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Don’t Weep For Me
Please don’t mourn as I depart, for that is when my life will start.
No longer will I be facing death, I’ll be breathing Heaven’s breath.
Please don’t weep, don’t weep for me, I’ll be at home in Eternity.
I had actually died in Christ, down on earth when I had my life.
Life on this earth began for me, a pilgrim’s journey into Eternity.
When on earth I am no more, I will be in Heaven forevermore.
Finally with my Savior who died, to live for eternity by His side.
This earthly life is temporal friend, with a beginning and an end.
However, my death is not my end, for that is when I shall ascend,
To a majestic place above the sky, to reign with my Lord on high.
Unlike this earthly life my friend, a life in Heaven will have no end.
It begins for me a whole new life, spent forever with Jesus Christ.
My mortal body racked with pain, becomes immortal so I can reign,
And reign forever by Christ’s side, in a new body that’ll be glorified.
Friend, in just a moment I will change, never again to be the same.
When I ascend through that sky, Christ will indeed wipe every eye.
Friend there is no need to fear, for Christ will indeed dry every tear.
Death for me is life you see, so please my friend, don’t weep for me.
So when I die don’t mourn for me, for I will begin my life in eternity.
Just be certain you know The Lord, and I will see you again for sure.
Joseph Warren, M. D.
TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield
Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe,
By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw,
Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield
The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field
The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low,
Seeking its noblest victim. Even so
The charter of a nation must be sealed!
The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned,
From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed.
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound;
Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed,
Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed
Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To the Victor
You have outstripped me in the race,
Your brow shall wear the laurel's grace;
But though on-speeding in your might
You pass beyond my straining sight,
My spirit shall with yours keep pace!
For I have dreamed your dream divine,
For I have worshiped at the shrine
Whose oracles your faith have moved,
For I have loved what you have loved—
Your victory is also mine!
Shall the grave gods pronounce their choice
And I not lift in praise my voice?
Or shall another win the goal
Whose vision hath illumed my soul,
And I, though distant, not rejoice?
Ah, no! Your greater gifts prevail;
But though to reach your side I fail,
Through you triumphant in defeat,
Even in death I will repeat,—
Hail to the victor! Hail! . . .
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ode XVI: To Caleb Hardinge, M.D.
I.
With sordid floods the wintry Urn
Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green:
Her naked hill the Dryads mourn,
No longer a poetic scene.
No longer there thy raptur'd eye
The beauteous forms of earth or sky
Surveys as in their Author's mind:
And London shelters from the year
Those whom thy social hours to share
The Attic Muse design'd.
II.
From Hampstead's airy summit me
Her guest the city shall behold,
What day the people's stern decree
To unbelieving kings is told,
When common men (the dread of fame)
Adjudg'd as one of evil name,
Before the sun, the anointed head.
Then seek thou too the pious town,
With no unworthy cares to crown
That evening's awful shade.
III.
Deem not i call thee to deplore
The sacred martyr of the day,
By fast and penitential lore
To purge our ancient guilt away.
For this, on humble faith i rest
That still our advocate, the priest,
From heavenly wrath will save the land;
Nor ask what rites our pardon gain,
Nor how his potent sounds restrain
The thunderer's lifted hand.
IV.
No, Hardinge: peace to church and state!
That evening, let the Muse give law:
While i anew the theme relate
Which my first youth inamor'd saw.
Then will i oft explore thy thought,
What to reject which Locke hath taught,
What to pursue in Virgil's lay:
Till hope ascends to loftiest things,
Nor envies demagogues or kings
Their frail and vulgar sway.
V.
O vers'd in all the human frame,
Lead thou where'er my labor lies,
And English fancy's eager flame
To Grecian purity chastize:
While hand in hand, at wisdom's shrine,
Beauty with truth i strive to join,
And grave assent with glad applause;
To paint the story of the soul,
And Plato's visions to controul
By Verulamian laws.
poem by Mark Akenside
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Just One Dropp Of Blood
Just one dropp of blood from our Saviour's vein
Destroys all sin and breaks its deadly spell
And just one single tear from a repentant eye
Shall douse the raging fires of Satan's hell
Kneel before the cross and gaze upon the Son
And lift your head and humble hands up high
For it was up on Calvary's hill that victory was won
So therefore hell and death must pass me by
See the chains of hell, broken now by Christ
Hear the choirs of heavenly angels sing
The grave has been defeated and lost its victory
And all of death has lost its deadly sting
Now He sits upon a horse, Faithful and True
His justice and His mercy never ends
He sets the captives free, for He died for you and me
And freedom is the message He now sends
poem by Frank McEleny
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