Prologue Spoken the First Day of the King's House Acting After the Fire
So shipwracked passengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand,
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,
Expecting famine on a desert shore.
From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence even the natives, forced by hunger, fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true:
You are changed too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,
While you, the founders, make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind beside, fate had some care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,
'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.
You cherished it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmannered zealots make their scorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spared not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built city rises higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far surpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, should in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your presence here, for which we humbly sue
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
poem by John Dryden
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Prologue Spoken at the Opening of The New House, March 26, 1674
A plain-built house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfied away;
When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is designed.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnished gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade;
We, broken bankers, half destroyed by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive;
We yield in both, and only beg—to live;
Unable to support their vast expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence,
That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less;
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
The extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allowed,
We in our plainness may be justly proud;
Our Royal Master willed it should be so;
Whate 'er he's pleased to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metal pass.
'Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,
To build a playhouse while you throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen disdain;
While troops of famished Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you submit;
You're now grown vassals to them in your wit.
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry Ben! and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood,
That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophesy our house's fate;
But while vain shows and scenes you overrate,
'Tis to be feared—
That, as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempests will destroy the new.
poem by John Dryden
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The Retreat From Moscow
Sad Moscow, thy fate do I see,
Fire! fire! in the city all cry;
Like quails from the eagle all flee,
Escape in a moment or die.
It looks like the battle of Troy,
The storm rises higher and higher;
The scene of destruction all hearts must annoy,
The whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
The dread conflagration rolls forth,
Augmenting the rage of the wind,
Which blows it from south unto north,
And leaves but the embers behind.
It looks like Gomorrah; the flame
Is moving still nigher and nigher,
Aloud from all quarters the people proclaim,
The whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
A dead fumigation now swells,
A blue circle darkens the air,
With tones as the pealing of bells,
Farewell to the brave and the fair.
O Moscow, thou city of grace,
Consign'd to a dread burning pyre,
From morning to ev'ning with sorrow I trace
The wild winds, the smoke, and the fire.
The dogs in the kennel all howl,
The wether takes flight with the ox,
Appal'd on the wing is the fowl,
The pigeon deserting her box.
With a heart full of pain, in the night
Mid hillocks and bogs I retire,
Through lone, deadly vallies I steer by its light,
The wild storm, the smoke, and the fire.
Though far the crash breaks on my ear,
The stars glimmer dull in the sky,
The shrieks of the women I hear,
The fall of the kingdom is nigh.
heaven, when earth is no more,
And all things in nature expire,
May I thus, with safety, keep distant before
The whirlwinds, the smoke, and the fire.
poem by George Moses Horton
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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.
The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’
‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.
Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.
The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.
But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Fate Beckons
Why Should I live in fear,
Why should I live with tears,
When my fate is not to wait,
But to take what's mine
And leave what's yours
You build your Airy castles
From nothing but my blood and sweat
And yet you have hassles
To acknowledge me yet
Who are you?
To judge me so
When it is not for you to..
Who am I
To be judged so
When it is not for me to be..
One day fate will knock.
At my door and yours.
And the judgment of the King
Shall tell for whom the bell tolls.
That day I shall wait,
Joyfully as is my fate.
Be it Heaven or hell
Only time & fate will tell
poem by Ayan excalibur
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Fate Beckons
Why Should I live in fear,
Why should I live with tears,
When my fate is not to wait,
But to take what's mine
And leave what's yours
You build your Airy castles
From nothing but my blood and sweat
And yet you have hassles
To acknowledge me yet
Who are you?
To judge me so
When it is not for you to..
Who am I
To be judged so
When it is not for me to be..
One day fate will knock.
At my door and yours.
And the judgment of the King
Shall tell for whom the bell tolls.
That day I shall wait,
Joyfully as is my fate.
Be it Heaven or hell
Only time & fate will tell…
poem by Ayan excalibur
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Dancing In The Fire
I think my heart was designed to fade and lose color
To turn inside out and wash in the rain
It loses all perfection in cold water
So the desired look is obtained
And it rises higher and higher
Like this filthy heat above the city sky
And I feel like I'm going mad dancing in the fire
As if I'm only here to prove there are mountains I could move
So love is spent dancing in the fire
Too high the cost and too quick the pain
And all that's left for the outsider
Is ashes from dancing in the fire
I think my eyes were made for deception
Interpreting lovers will call what they want the truth
With all I have seen burning behind these mirrors
The reflection they see is all that I pursue
And it rises higher and higher
Like this filthy heat above the city sky
And I feel like I'm going mad dancing in the fire
As if I'm only here to prove there are mountains I could move
So love is spent dancing in the fire
Too high the cost and too quick the pain
And all that's left for the outsider
Ashes from dancing in the fire
And voices get louder
And the air's too thick to breathe
Still I lie awake and I wait for the unknown power
Dying for want of sleep
I think my life line was stolen from a movie
The one where they are trying to solve the crime
But this prisoner is always one step before them
And everyone's running trying to stop me in time
And it keeps rising higher and higher
Like this filthy heat above the city sky
And I feel like I'm going mad dancing in the fire
As if I'm only here to prove
There are lovers I could move
Oh love is spent dancing in the fire
Too high the cost and too quick the pain
And all that's left for the outsider
Ashes from dancing in the fire
song performed by by Melissa Etheridge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Laodicea
Hear what the Lord, the great Amen,
The true and faithful Witness says!
He formed the vast creation's plan,
And searches all our hearts and ways.
To some he speaks as once of old,
I know thee, thy profession's vain;
Since thou art neither hot nor cold,
I'll spit thee from me with disdain.
Thou boasteth, I am wise and rich,
Increased in goods and nothing need;
And dost not know thou art a wretch,
Naked and poor, and blind and dead.
Yet while I thus rebuke, I love,
My message is in mercy sent;
That thou may'st my compassion prove,
I can forgive, if thou repent.
Wouldst thou be truly rich and wise?
Come, buy my gold in fire well tried,
My ointment to anoint thine eyes,
My robe, thy nakedness to hide.
See at thy door I stand and knock!
Poor sinner, shall I wait in vain?
Quickly thy stubborn heart unlock,
That I may enter with my train.
Thou canst not entertain a king,
Unworthy thou of such a guest!
But I my own provisions bring,
To make thy soul a heavenly feast.
poem by John Newton
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The Burning of the People's Variety Theatre, Aberdeen
'Twas in the year of 1896, and on the 30th of September,
Which many people in Aberdeen will long remember;
The burning of the People's Variety Theatre, in Bridge Place
Because the fire spread like lightning at a rapid pace.
The fire broke out on the stage, about eight o'clock,
Which gave to the audience a very fearful shock;
Then a stampede ensued, and a rush was made pell-mell,
And in the crush, trying to get out, many people fell.
The stage flies took fire owing to the gas
Not having room enough by them to pass;
And with his jacket Mr. Macaulay tried to put out the flame,
But oh! horrible to relate, it was all in vain.
Detective Innes, who was passing at the time of the fire,
Rendered help in every way the audience could desire,
By helping many of them for to get out,
Which was a heroic action, without any doubt.
Oh! it was a pitiful and fearful sight,
To see both old and young struggling with all their might,
For to escape from that merciless fire,
While it roared and mounted higher and higher.
Oh! it was horrible to hear the cries of that surging crowd,
Yelling and crying for "Help! help!" aloud;
While one old woman did fret and frown
Because her clothes were torn off when knocked down.
A lady and gentleman of the Music Hall company, Monti & Spry,
Managed to make their escape by climbing up very high
To an advertisement board, and smashing the glass of the fanlight,
And squeezed themselves through with a great fight.
But accidents will happen both on sea and land,
And the works of the Almighty is hard to understand;
And thank God there's only a few has fallen victims to the fire,
But I hope they are now in Heaven, amongst the Heavenly choir.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Icarus, Robert Jones's Second Book of Songs and Airs
LOVE wing'd my Hopes and taught me how to fly
Far from base earth, but not to mount too high:
For true pleasure
Lives in measure,
Which if men forsake,
Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,
Enamour'd sought to woo the sun's fair light,
Whose rich brightness
Moved their lightness
To aspire so high
That all scorch'd and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
Though fate frowned,
And now drowned
They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heav'n for whose fair love they fell.
The first dragon (sestina)
They went to find a thing that belched fire
a killer, a dragon what could it be?
To defeat it, to win they did aspire,
to set the people from its terror free,
it was huge as it could never tire
and where it went, there was only agony.
Those brave humble men were of all fear free
were like a mighty force that did aspire
to make men godly, as t no man should be,
to snatch from that beast it’s devouring fire
and to bring to it just death and agony
and in this quest they would not tire.
Yet all of the great brave men do aspire
to in the unknown find knowledge free
to test skill against the beast and to tire
to measure if plans full of follies be,
later to chance, to fight using its fire,
even in using if there is only agony.
They wanted the truth of its power to be free,
free to use in destruction like the strange fire
that came from heaven that fell in agony
that has the capacity to even gods to tire,
they constructed weapons that should be
the main goal to which warriors do aspire.
It may that other men could easily tire
of this overwhelming quest whose worth could be
not lovely high things, to which to aspire,
nor a guiding light sparkling over the free
but quenching of life by its terrible fire,
with it only acts of death and agony.
Then like destiny, which doomed in agony,
like the first discoverers of divine secret fire,
the beast would rise and in raving anger be
really ruthless and from tricks it will not tire,
its intimate knowledge would not come free,
to seek power in which men as fools aspire.
In pride anything to be, finishing foes with fire
while endlessly to be free they do aspire
while men tire in wars only breeding agony.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Afterglow
Oh, for the fire that used to glow
In those my days of old!
I never thought a man could grow
So callous and so cold.
Ah, for the heart that used to ache
For those in sorrow’s ways;
I often wish my heart could break
As it did in those dead days.
Along my track of storm and stress,
And it is plain to trace,
I look back from the loneliness
And the depth of my disgrace.
’Twas fate and only fate I know,
But all mistakes are plain,
’Tis sadder than the afterglow,
More dreary than the rain.
But still there lies a patch of sun
That ne’er will come again,
Those golden days when I was one
Of Nature’s gentlemen.
And if there is a memory
Could break me down at last,
It sure would be the thought of this,
The sunshine in the past.
But ’spite of sunshine on the track—
And well the sun might shine—
My heart grows hard when I look back
From these dark days of mine.
A nobler child was never born
In all the Southern land—
The slave of selfish ignorance
That could not understand.
Oh, I had lived for many years
In a world of my ideal,
With no false laughter, no false tears,
And it seemed very real.
But I was wakened from my dreams,
And learnt with hardening eyes
A world of selfish treachery,
Of paltry shame and lies.
I left the truest friends on earth
Who did not need my aid,
And worked for those who were not worth
The sacrifice I made.
And while I blindly strove to raise
The coward and the clown,
They sneaked behind by shady ways
And tore my palace down.
But let those faithless friends of mine
Who’d think of me with scorn,
Remember that for many years
A heavy load I’ve borne.
And my true friends when all is done,
And my sad soul is gone,
Will think of battles I have won
When I lead rivals on.
And though from spite and worldly things
I well should be exempt,
For little men and paltry men
I scarce can feel contempt.
They followed me with flattery
In the days when I was brave—
But for those who have been true to me
I’ll strike back from the grave!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Without Just Cause.
My maiden aunt had little chance.
Because the man she was to wed
Was one of those who fell in France
listed as missing presumed dead.
Her happiness a casualty
which never figured in the news
She had to face reality
a future which she did not choose.
She was condemned to life alone
Because so many young men died
all chance of motherhood was gone.
She bore her fate with stoic pride.
She helped to raise her sister’s brood.
Her husband too unfit to go.
She mothered them as best she could
the only joy she’d ever know.
She was a treasure left unclaimed
a mother she would never be.
Only the Great War could be blamed
for many women’s misery.
She lived to see a ripe old age.
She died in nineteen forty one
just long enough to see the stage
prepared for another one.
Another war to end all wars
Just as the first Great War had been.
To her it was a hopeless cause
she saw the slaughter as obscene.
Young men will answer to the call
but womenfolk are left behind
To mourn their menfolk when they fall
A fate that’s very far from kind.
I think that she was glad to go
she knew from hard experience.
What other girls would come to know
when sorrow takes up residence.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Bastille day, French revolution
After a costly foreign war,
Injustices angered the poor,
The king didn't much seem to care,
So calls to rebel filled the air,
Once passions had begun to stir,
Blood spilt so power could transfer,
The status quo began to fear,
Whilst the left felt their day was near,
Fuelled by an unfaltering will,
Revolution dawned closer still,
Brave souls stormed and took the Bastille,
Then celebrated the ordeal,
Hailed were the seeds of the king's fall,
First by few nationals then by all,
The chance to bare one's heart and soul,
Unites the country as a whole.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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A Ballad
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
In a costly palace Youth is still carest
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
Does Age begin to prattle?-no man heark'neth to his tales.
In a costly palace if the child with a pin
Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
Think upon the former days, when he was well to do,
Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
That none to do them injury may have pretence;
Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Edwin Booth
An old actor at the Player’s Club told me that Edwin Booth
first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California.
There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided
with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore
Howling at chance and fate and change;
Voices of old Europe’s dead
Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed,
The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar
All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale,
Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king,
And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then
The camp-drab’s tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother’s woe,
Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind,
And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind,
And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh!
The Indian and the Chinaman
And Mexican were fain to learn
What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare
When the court-players curtsied fair
And the Gonzago scene began?
And ah, the duel scene at last!
They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea,
With velvet hangings incomplete,
A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown,
And yet a monarch tumbled down,
A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn?
Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage
His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep
He drove that king to his black sleep
And died, all godlike and untamed.
. . . . .
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street,
The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine
Upon some whispering silvery line
He yet resolves to speak aright.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Prologue to the Prophetess, by Beaumont and Fletcher. Revived by Dryden. Spoken by Mr. Betterton
What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a prospective set right,
Presents our vast expenses close to sight;
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view
Our distant gains, and those uncertain too;
A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our losses warn us to be wise?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.
We raise new objects to provoke delight,
But you grow sated ere the second sight.
False men, even so you serve your mistresses;
They rise three stories in their towering dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.
Now honour calls you hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.
In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,
Your silver goes, that should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn,
Till rich from vanquished rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.
Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away,
With your propitious presence grace our play,
And with a sigh their empty seats survey;
Then think,—On that bare bench my servant sat!
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, called dumb-founding.
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more, to see you often here;
That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.
poem by John Dryden
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To Mr. Addison on His Tragedy of Cato
Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage,
And sunk to softness all our tragic rage:
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes:
The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame:
A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind.
How do our souls with generous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight
Of all his sufferings venerably great;
Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his side,
With conscious virtue, and becoming pride!
The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His sap exhausted, and his branches bare;
'Midst storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight
His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes;
Awhile they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate.
Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where states and senates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.
France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find: each deed, each word exprest,
And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
With Virgil's judgement, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee most.
poem by Thomas Tickell
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Servitors of the highest God
On the plain of Dura
a twenty-seven meter high
golden statue stand,
that people can see for miles far
and the esteemed people,
commanders and princes
and the king is there
with a big crowd
and almost everybody that serves him.
In different languages it is announced
that everybody must fall down,
have got to pray to it
when the music instruments play
and we see the king
sitting boldly on his throne
and the people are excited,
it’s a great festival
and suddenly there is silence,
in the big fire oven
flames shoot up brightly
and expectation is written on faces.
All at once the sound rises
of horn, zither, flute, lute
harp and bagpipes
and all kinds of instruments.
Around us the crowds of people bend down
onto the earth and the three of us stand
while a light winds is pulling on our cloaks
and I lift my hand
to shade the sun from shining in my eyes
while the music is inundating
and everybody can hear the music
and friends shout in fear to us:
“Bend! Bend down!
Bend before the master and lord! ”
Armed soldier take us
right up to king Nebuchadnezzar
and it’s clear that he is raging
and indignantly he gets up from his throne
and walks right up to us
and in anger he wants to know
if we are impudent
to disobey his commands?
“Are you too stupid to know
that no God
can save you from my hand? ”
We say that the God that we serve
is almighty and if He does not rescue us,
it will be known that we serve
no other gods.
At that moment Nebuchadnezzar gets angrier
and his face is red with rage
and in his eyes hate is glowing
and he stops talking
shouting loudly for the fire to be made
seven times hotter
and his servants run in fear
to the oven to make it still hotter
and there are flames and clouds of smoke.
“Take them to the fire,
take them to the fire, I command you, ”
Nebuchadnezzar roars at the strongest men
of his army and we are cuffed
and in our clothes
are thrown into the fire
causing us to fall right into the flames
and those that threw us in
are immediately killed by the great heat
and we cannot even
feel the heat
and nothing of us is burning
and while we are still talking
with each other
the Son of God
himself visits us right there
and a distance from the oven
the king shouts in great fear:
“Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego
servitors of the highest God,
come out of the fire! ”
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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AN ELEGY Upon S. W. R.
I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin
To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin
An Actor in thy death. Thy life and age
Was but a various Scene on fortunes Stage,
With whom thou tugg'st & strov'st ev'n out of breath
In thy long toil: nere master'd till thy death;
And then despight of trains and cruell wit,
Thou did'st at once subdue malice and it.
I dare not then so blast thy memory
As say I do lament or pity thee.
Were I to choose a subject to bestow
My pity on, he should be one as low
In spirit as desert. That durst not dy
But rather were content by slavery
To purchase life: or I would pity those
Thy most industrious and friendly foes:
Who when they thought to make thee scandals story
Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory.
That thought by cutting off some wither'd dayes,
(Which thou could'st spare them) to eclipse thy praise;
Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame
Appear more white and fair, then foul their shame:
And did promote an Execution
Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done.
Such worthless things as these were onely born
To live on Pities almes (too mean for scorn.)
Thou dy'dst an envious wonder, whose high fate
The world must still admire, scarce imitate.
poem by Henry King
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Real value
Who has made me sleepless?
Who has taken away all my happiness?
Why have I changed a lot?
What in turn have I got?
Lies, deception all were for me
It has made me prisoner and not free
I wanted to fly in fresh air
Does it look to you as very fair?
I am bodily broken
Confidence has shattered and mentally shaken
I have not enough courage to stand?
Are we still very much close and friend?
I want to make it as reality?
Love can be made and look super quality
There is fair chance of being loved
Put in confidence and show that you have believed
There won't be any use
If I shun the eyes and refuse
To accept her real message
That can remain with me till last age
I did underestimate the real value
I failed to grasp and need to view
Why did I look at and care for outer show?
Why did I hurry so much and not allow her to grow?
Love can't be one sided
It can't be one side decided
Fair chance is to be afforded to seek her opinion
Before she is entering holy alliance for becoming companion
Love hinges on delicate thread
In hunger it is chosen as bread
Gives sweetness as you chew more
So praise her and always adore
You may suffer more as consequence
If missed it inadvertently in life at once
It may not knock often even if desired
Memory may invade at later stage even when you are retired
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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