Sonnet XVIII: On the Late Massacre in Piemont
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones;
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
poem by John Milton
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Related quotes
Sonnet 15
XV
On The Late Massacher In Piemont
Avenge O lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old
When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groanes
Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold
Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans
The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O're all th'Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
poem by John Milton
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On the Late Late Massachers Stillbirths and Deformed Children a Smoother Lovelier Skin Job
The sevenday beauty plan:
Avenge O Lord thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Will cause up to I million deaths from leukaemia
Forget not, in thy book record their groans
Now for the vitally important step.
Cream your face and neck a second time
No American president worldfamous for beauty creams
responsible for the freedom and safety of so many young offenders
TODAY'S MEN OF ACTION
The Triple Tyrant Macmillan Kennedy Watkinson
The West governments are satisfied as to the moral
necessity to resume Racing from Newmarket
EXTRA SPECIAL!
Atmospheric testing: A test card is shown
continuously from to a.m. until 15 minutes
before slayn by the bloody Piemontese
why pay higher fares?
There is always trouble when President Kennedy the jovial
gravelvoiced little sailor
defends glamorous Olive Oyl from contamination of the
atmosphere
EXTRA MONEY
their moans The Vales redoubled to the Hills
Another fire blazes in the city of London AND ALL THAT
JAZZ
Do you draw your curtains with a walkingstick?
The mutation was caused by a heavy dose of radiation
received
by the Mother at Hiroshima
This baby's eyes and nose had merged into
one misshapen feature in the middle of its
forehead, lost 6' from Hips
sufferers can now wear fashion stockings
Early may fly the Babylonian wo
followed by
TOMORROW'S WEATHER
The Epilogue
close down.
poem by Adrian Henri
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Sheep
From where I stand the sheep stand still
As stones against the stony hill.
The stones are gray
And so are they.
And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.
Two mingled flocks -
The sheep, the rocks.
And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.
poem by Robert Francis
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A Tribute to S.P.T
The daring soul
Born to be born in death
A hundred deaths he shall endure
Only to be born again as martyr
To decorate his blood with bravery.
The lost is felt across the seas
All over the universe the tears roll
To bath your departure in this final path
Stars and moon too have been wailing here
A sign that in this fall you have risen again
To live in the hearts of many soul.
It’s painful to bear the end
That comes abrupt
The smile and voice buried now
Will come again a hundred fold
And run run and run, thy enemies shall run.
A smiling tiger, your departure is premature
Rare indeed a man of your stature
Born only to be born again as martyr
To decorate your blood with bravery.
Mother earth is proud to consume you
For you have stood the test for loyalty
In justice to free the anarchy of the south
Fearless indeed your move
Like a tiger your steps you placed ever.
Happy sojourn, dear fighter.
©cyclopseven. All rights reserved 041107.
poem by cyclopseven Ram
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There's Snow On The Fields
There's snow on the fields,
And cold in the cottage,
While I sit in the chimney nook
Supping hot pottage.
My clothes are soft and warm,
Fold upon fold,
But I'm so sorry for the poor
Out in the cold.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Gwin King of Norway
Come, kings, and listen to my song:
When Gwin, the son of Nore,
Over the nations of the North
His cruel sceptre bore;
The nobles of the land did feed
Upon the hungry poor;
They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive
The needy from their door.
`The land is desolate; our wives
And children cry for bread;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down!
Let Gwin be humblèd!'
Gordred the giant rous'd himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubl'd banners wave.
Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The num'rous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud,
Follow in wild array,
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.
`Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
Let Gwin be humblèd,'
They cry, `and let ten thousand lives
Pay for the tyrant's head.'
From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry,
`O Gwin, the son of Nore,
Arouse thyself! the nations, black
Like clouds, come rolling o'er!'
Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
His chiefs come rushing round;
Each, like an awful thunder cloud,
With voice of solemn sound:
Like rearèd stones around a grave
They stand around the King;
Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,
And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough
To wade thro' fields of gore;
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill;
The workman throws his hammer down
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwin leads his host, as black as night
When pestilence does fly,
With horses and with chariots--
And all his spearmen b 1000 old
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him roll'd.
Gwin lifts his hand--the nations halt;
`Prepare for war!' he cries--
Gordred appears!--his frowning brow
Troubles our northern skies.
The armies stand, like balances
Held in th' Almighty's hand;--
`Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:
Thou'rt swept from out the land.'
And now the raging armies rush'd
Like warring mighty seas;
The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,
The dust ascends the skies!
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood; nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore!
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death doth cry;
The cries of women and of babes
Over the field doth fly.
The King is seen raging afar,
With all his men of might;
Like blazing comets scattering death
Thro' the red fev'rous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die,
And groan upon the plain;
The battle faints, and bloody men
Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men
Labour and toil for life;
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood;
The earth doth faint and fail;
The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;
Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
O what have kings to answer for
Before that awful throne;
When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,
And ghosts accusing groan!
Like blazing comets in the sky
That shake the stars of light,
Which drop like fruit unto the earth
Thro' the fierce burning night;
Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,
And the first blow decides;
Down from the brow unto the breast
Gordred his head divides!
Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled,
All that remain'd alive;
The rest did fill the vale of death,
For them the eagles strive.
The river Dorman roll'd their blood
Into the northern sea;
Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd
The pleasant south country.
poem by William Blake
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Bittersweet Lament
We must build a man, my son
A strong and vibrant one,
With bones enriched with calcium
To bleach white in the sun.
We must build a man, my son
A healthy, stalwart man...
Whose blood is rich and red and ripe
To paint some far-off sand.
Yes, we must give the best, my son
The "lead sheep' of our fold.
So clean your plate and drain your cup
Try not to catch a cold
For we must build a man, my son
With serums, vitamins and oil
For the blood you shed must be the best
That e'er darkened foreign soil!
poem by Charlotte Harrison
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Psalm 145 part 1
v.1-7,11-13
C. M.
The greatness of God.
Long as I live I'll bless thy name,
My King, my God of love;
My work and joy shall be the same
In the bright world above.
Great is the Lord, his power unknown,
And let his praise be great;
I'll sing the honors of thy throne,
Thy works of grace repeat.
Thy grace shall dwell upon my tongue;
And while my lips rejoice,
The men that hear my sacred song
Shall join their cheerful voice.
Fathers to sons shall teach thy name,
And children learn thy ways;
Ages to come thy truth proclaim,
And nations sound thy praise.
Thy glorious deeds of ancient date
Shall through the world be known;
Thine arm of power, thy heav'nly state,
With public splendor shown.
The world is managed by thy hands,
Thy saints are ruled by love;
And thine eternal kingdom stands,
Though rocks and hills remove.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Intellectuals
Is it so hard for men to stand by themselves,
They must hang on Marx or Christ, or mere Progress?
Clearly it is hard. But these ought to be leaders . . .
Sheep leading sheep, 'The fold, the fold.
Night comes, and the wolves of doubt.' Clearly it is hard.
Yourself, if you had not encountered and loved
Our unkindly all but inhuman God,
Who is very beautiful and too secure to want worshippers,
And includes indeed the sheep with the wolves,
You too might have been looking about for a church.
He includes the flaming stars and pitiable flesh,
And what we call things and what we call nothing.
He is very beautiful. But when these lonely have travelled
Through long thoughts to redeeming despair,
They are tired and cover their eyes; they flock into fold.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Parables of Jesus: ‘The Lost Sheep’
A shepherd with his hundred sheep,
Was grazing them in a meadow green;
When to his horror he noticed
That one was missing from the flock:
‘It wandered off and had got lost! ’
‘It wandered off and had got lost! ’
He left the ninety-nine behind
In the open, open country-side;
He went in search of the missing one,
And finding, lifted it with love,
Placed it on his shoulders, neck,
And came back to his flock with joy;
And came back to his flock with joy.
“Rejoice! I’ve found my sheep,
Just one out of a hundred fold,
One that was lost sometime ago,
I love it dearly anyhow!
Rejoice, my friends and neighbors all,
The sheep that was lost is found;
The sheep that was lost is found! ”
Sheep that was lost is like a soul,
Afilled with sins, and far from God;
And when a sinner repents then,
There’s much rejoicing in heaven;
There’s much rejoicing in heaven!
Lost sheep is like a sinner who
Commits sins and has strayed from God;
But God of love for all creatures,
Seeks him out without delay when
He has atoned for his sins,
And soul comes back to Maker’s fold;
And soul comes back to Maker’s fold.
The Good Shepherd – Lord Jesus Christ
Was sent to earth to be born man
in utter poverty and strife,
And suffer for the sins of all;
And suffer for the sins of all.
He came to earth to preach God’s Word
Of forgiveness of mankind’s sins;
He sought just sinners and not saints,
And made their hearts truly repent,
And saved them from the fiery hell,
Whither unrepentant souls go;
Whither unrepentant souls go.
The Good Shepherd is Jesus Christ,
Who came to preach the Word of God;
He sought the sinners’ souls all lost,
Explained to them about God’s love,
And the need to feel sorry,
As God’s ready to forgive sins,
No matter how many / grievous;
No matter how many / grievous!
Joy fills heaven, Abode of God,
And angels rejoice much more when
A penitent sinner repents,
And soul embraces God again;
And soul embraces God again;
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-09-’10
poem by John Celes
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Where a Roman Villa Stood, Above Freiburg
On alien ground, breathing an alien air,
A Roman stood, far from his ancient home,
And gazing, murmured,
'Ah, the hills are fair,
But not the hills of Rome!'
Descendant of a race to Romans-kin,
Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand.
The self-same rocks fold the same valley in,
Untouched of human hand.
Over another shines the self-same star,
Another heart with nameless longing fills,
Crying aloud, 'How beautiful they are,
But not our English hills!'
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Italy
ACROSS the sea I heard the groans
Of nations in the intervals
Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones
Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones,
And sucked by priestly cannibals.
I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained
By martyr meekness, patience, faith,
And lo! an athlete grimly stained,
With corded muscles battle-strained,
Shouting it from the fields of death!
I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight,
Among the clamoring thousands mute,
I only know that God is right,
And that the children of the light
Shall tread the darkness under foot.
I know the pent fire heaves its crust,
That sultry skies the bolt will form
To smite them clear; that Nature must
The balance of her powers adjust,
Though with the earthquake and the storm.
God reigns, and let the earth rejoice!
I bow before His sterner plan.
Dumb are the organs of my choice;
He speaks in battle's stormy voice,
His praise is in the wrath of man!
Yet, surely as He lives, the day
Of peace He promised shall be ours,
To fold the flags of war, and lay
Its sword and spear to rust away,
And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Hymn 121
Children devoted to God. [For those who practise infant Baptism.]
Gen. 17:7,10; Acts 16:14,15,33.
Thus saith the mercy of the Lord,
"I'll be a God to thee;
I'll bless thy num'rous race, and they
Shall be a seed for me."
Abram believed the promised grace,
And gave his sons to God;
But water seals the blessing now,
That once was sealed with blood.
Thus Lydia sanctified her house,
When she received the word;
Thus the believing jailer gave
His household to the Lord.
Thus later saints, eternal King!
Thine ancient truth embrace;
To thee their infant offspring bring,
And humbly claim the grace.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Where the blood is pure and holy !
Where the blood is pure and holy,
Where the blood is red and costly,
Where the blood is not shed and spoiled,
Where the blood is not sucked and spilled.
Where the life is pure and holy,
Where the life is dear and costly,
Where the life is not rotten and wasted,
Where the life is not stagnant and gutted.
Where love is pure and holy,
Where love is not taken cheaply,
Where love is not a trap and trick,
Where love is not the game of a freak.
Where truth is pure and holy,
Where truth is honour and dignity,
Where truth is not polluted and strangulated,
Where truth is not slaughtered and murdered.
.
Where the Lord is pure and holy!
Where the Lord is full of love and sympathy!
Where the Lord changes His own friend!
Where the Lord changes His own land!
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Shepherd Boy
WHEN the red moon hangs over the fold,
And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold,
O little sheep, I have laid me low,
My face against the old earth's face,
Where one by one the white moths go,
And the brown bee has his sleeping place.
And then I have whispered, Mother, hear,
For the owls are awake and the night is near,
And whether I lay me near or far
No lip shall kiss me,
No eye shall miss me,
Saving the eye of a cold white star.
And the old brown woman answers mild,
Rest you safe on my heart, O child.
Many a shepherd, many a king,
I fold them safe from their sorrowing.
Gwenever's heart is bound with dust,
Tristram dreams of the dappled doe,
But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust;
Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho,
And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy.
Little and lonely,
Knowing me only,
Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy?
When the wind wakes in the apple-tree,
And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem,
I say my prayers to the Trinity,–
The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven
To the angels guarding the towers of heaven,–
And I lay my head on her raiment's hem,
Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star,
Where the iris buds and the bellworts are.
All night I hear her breath go by
Under the arch of the empty sky.
All night her heart beats under my head,
And I lie as still as the ancient dead,
Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep.
I and no other
Close to my Mother,
Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Psalm 98 part 2
The Messiah's coming and kingdom.
Joy to the world! the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare him room,
And heav'n and nature sing.
Joy to the earth! the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ,
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains,
Repeat the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make his blessings flow
Far as the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of his righteousness,
And wonders of his love.
poem by Isaac Watts
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When The Saints Go Marchin' In (Live)
WHEN THE SAINT GO MARCHING IN
Louis Armstrong
I: We are trav'ling in the footsteps
Of those who've gone before
But we'll all be reunited (But if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (Then a new world is in store)
D - - - / G - - - / D - - - / A - - - /
D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
V: O when the Saints go marching in
When the Saints go marching in
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
D - - - / / / A7 - - - / D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
B: Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But I'm waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
(As Intro)
V: When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
Bo Peterson
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn 25
A vision of the Lamb.
Rev. 5:6-9.
All mortal vanities, begone,
Nor tempt my eyes, nor tire my ears;
Behold, amidst th' eternal throne,
A vision of the Lamb appears.
[Glory his fleecy robe adorns,
Marked with the bloody death he bore;
Seven are his eyes, and seven his horns,
To speak his wisdom and his power.
Lo! he receives a sealed book
From him that sits upon the throne;
Jesus, my Lord, prevails to look
On dark decrees and things unknown.]
All the assembling saints around
Fall worshipping before the Lamb,
And in new songs of gospel sound
Address their honors to his name.
[The Joy, the shout, the harmony,
Flies o'er the everlasting hills
"Worthy art thou alone," they cry,
To read the book, to loose the seals."]
Our voices join the heav'nly strain,
And with transporting pleasure sing,
"Worthy the Lamb that once was slain,
To be our Teacher and our King!"
His words of prophecy reveal
Eternal counsels, deep designs;
His grace and vengeance shall fulfil
The peaceful and the dreadful lines.
Thou hast redeemed our souls from hell
With thine invaluable blood;
And wretches that did once rebel
Are now made fav'rites of their God.
Worthy for ever is the Lord,
That died for treasons not his own,
By every tongue to be adored,
And dwell upon his Father's throne!
poem by Isaac Watts
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When The Saints Go Marching In
We are traveling in the footsteps
Of those whove gone before
But well all be reunited (but if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (then a new world is in store)
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But Im waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If It Is True What the Prophets Write
If it is true, what the Prophets write,
That the heathen gods are all stocks and stones,
Shall we, for the sake of being polite,
Feed them with the juice of our marrow-bones?
And if Bezaleel and Aholiab drew
What the finger of God pointed to their view,
Shall we suffer the Roman and Grecian rods
To compel us to worship them as gods?
They stole them from the temple of the Lord
And worshipp'd them that they might make inspirèd art abhorr'd;
The wood and stone were call'd the holy things,
And their sublime intent given to their kings.
All the atonements of Jehovah spurn'd,
And criminals to sacrifices turn'd.
poem by William Blake
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