The Procession
The legislators pass along
A solemn, self-important throng!
Just raised from the common mass,
They feel themselves another class.
--But let them in the sunshine play
For every dog must have his day.
There moves the law's close-wedged band
The scourge and terror of the land!
Pandora's box replete with ills
Not half so baleful as their quills.
The sons of Galen, ghastly crew!
Next pass in horrible review:
Arm'd with each instrument of death
To sap the citadel of Health.
Ten thousand times ten thousand fall
And physic's monster gulps down all.
Bellona's sons, a num'rous train,
now darken all the dusky plain!
--War, their amusement, Death their trade
And the one sin, to be afraid.
They're but another dire disease
The soul from prison to release:
And man forlorn, as well may be
A prey to steel as malady:
Explore he must the mortal road,
The only diff'rence is the mode.
The men in black bring up the rear,
More warm to preach than folks to hear:
Each points to his own fav'rite road
As leading to the blest abode;
Proclaiming loud that all are wrong
Who don't around his banners throng,
Till, all confounded, FAITH retires
And frighten'd CHARITY expires.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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A Thousand Tears
Each night I cry a thousand tears
and die a thousand times in dreams
because you are no longer here
and I am locked within these prison walls.
Saunders was to blame for this grim tragedy.
If he had not seduced you with his smile
and took you away from me
jealousy might not have eaten at the soul of me.
When I came home late on that fateful night
and saw you both together lying
so close to one another within our family bed.
Something snapped within me
and now no longer and neither of you are here
and I sit on death row
waiting my death to be
and each night I cry a thousand tears
and die a thousand times for the deed I done.
poem by David Harris
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Meetings
As up and down I fare by road and street
The mothers of our men-at-arms I meet
Who die for mine and me,
That we go safe and free,
Sit in the sun, sleep soft and find life sweet.
I have two sons too young to fight, too young,
God grant if my hour comes I may be strong,
And caught in such a strait
May praise God and be great,
Giving my sons to save some woman from wrong!
Oh, mothers of dead heroes, ye I know,
My heart sends you a greeting, soft and low;
Blessed are ye whose sons
Amid the ransomed ones
Throng to the banners of Heaven as white as snow.
Somehow, by some secret and certain sign,
The mothers of the beloved I divine
Who died in my sons' place.
My heart kneels and gives grace.
Gives thanks for you, for you, proud sisters of mine!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Sons Of The Pioneers
(myles goodwyn)
Published by northern goody two tunes, ltd./capac - ascap
Reachin for a space in time, layin our fate on the line
Starting out a life anew, after weve come so far
Wont you look and see now, here we are
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, our fate is clear
Were the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Were not afraid to try (were not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
Whats the point of going on, if you feel that it couldnt be done
Cause I just wanna understand, freedoms the soul of a man
Wont you look and see now, and show me how
We have the chance, there is no doubt
Well pick it up, and see it out
We are the ones, you made it clear, we can take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, the way is clear
For the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear......................fear
When you think of how far weve come, and to know that weve only begun
Leaving us a legacy, makes sense to me
That now our time has come, for we have to move on
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
And now its time, our fate is surely here now
There is no doubt about it, its time we thought about it
We are the ones, the way is clear, for the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afriad of fear
Is there any doubt, none at all, they heard the call of the
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death Penalty
Bring back the death penalty screamed a lady as the blood ran, dripping from the cold concrete as her sons blood fled from its body. Bring back, bring back the death penalty screamed a mother as her child dies slowly watching the pools of life fade away from his eyes.
Bring back, bring back the death penalty screamed a mother while she watched her child being killed by the hands of another man, bring back the death penalty.
Bring back the death penalty as she screamed holding her dying child while he laid his last words and breath upon her chest. Bring back the death penalty she screamed in mercy so that she will so that she will no longer have to hold any more of her dying sons and lay them in graves before she lays in her own.
Bring back the death penalty she screamed as her sons soul left his body and he became another victim to a violent society. Bring back the death penalty, bring back our sons.
poem by Melvyn Mohan
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My Darkest Hour
My darkened eyes for death craves
sacred souls it fails to raise
death will soon be by my side
death soon will save me
God I’m your weakest slave
you can never leave me alone
join shall I soon be damned
for what I did down on earth
I carry this blessed glass of wine
will shove my fear down my swallowed
hypnotized underground demise
close to fragility it ends. Tonight.
Oh sweet death.
Sweet as I can taste
my soul you’re taking
I lay for you
oh death how warm
how warm you feel
your black wings you hold me down
please stay with me always by my side
Loneliness for God I stay
I pray, I hold my hands up
I know you hear me God
I’m asking for my downfall
you’ll cease it all at once
handful of mercy and death
close my eyes for once
close my eyes forever
Seems another attribute of death
cancer and shit, and disease all at once
forbidden to fall, to grieve to die
leave me for myself
by myself.
poem by Rakan Sliman
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War
I
There is no picturesqueness and no glory,
No halo of romance, in war to-day.
It is a hideous thing; Time would turn grey
With horror, were he not already hoary
At sight of this vile monster, foul and gory.
Yet while sweet women perish as they pray,
And new-born babes are slaughtered, who dare say
'Halt!' till Right pens its 'Finis' to the story!
There is no pathway, but the path through blood,
Out of the horrors of this holocaust.
Hell has let loose its scalding crimson flood,
And he who stops to argue now is lost.
Not brooms of creeds, not Pacifistic words
Can stem the tide, but swords-uplifted swords!
II
Yet, after Peace has turned the clean white page
There shall be sorrow on the earth for years;
Abysmal grief, that has no eyes for tears,
And youth that hobbles through the earth like age.
But better to play this part upon life's stage
Than to aid structures that a tyrant rears,
To live a stalwart hireling torn with fears,
And shamed by feeding on a conqueror's wage.
Death, yea, a thousand deaths, were sweet in truth
Rather than such ignoble life. God gave
Being, and breath, and high resolve to youth
That it might be Wrong's master, not its slave.
Our road to Freedom is the road to guns!
Go, arm your sons! I say, Go, arm your sons!
III
Arm! arm! that mandate on each wind is whirled.
Let no man hesitate or look askance,
For from the devastated homes of France
And ruined Belgium the cry is hurled.
Why, Christ Himself would keep peace banners furled
Were He among us, till, with lifted lance,
He saw the hosts of Righteousness advance
To purify the Temples of the world.
There is no safety on the earth to-day
For any sacred thing, or clean, or fair;
Nor can there be, until men rise and slay
The hydra-headed monster in his lair.
War! horrid War! now Virtue's only friend;
Clasp hands with War, and battle to the end!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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There Are Times When I Am Not Afraid To Die
There are times when I am not afraid to die-
But sometimes I am so afraid I frighten myself -
And other times when I don’t know exactly what I feel
Not to speak of the times I try to deny to myself,
When I somehow wish I was out of it and it was over already-
We live in these complexities and contradictions of feelings within ourselves-
Not only about Death but about so much else in life-
I am not afraid of anything now
But now I am writing and not really thinking about anything
But this poem-
Give me a little time-
I will be afraid so afraid of death I will be ashamed to tell you about it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Man Perishing in the Snow: From Whence Reflections are Raised on the Miseries of Life.
As thus the snows arise; and foul and fierce,
All winter drives along the darken'd air;
In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain
Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain;
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on,
From hill to dale, still more and more astray;
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!
What black despair, what horror fill his heart!
When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track, and blest abode of man;
While round him night resistless closes fast,
And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head,
Renders the savage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost!
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with snow; and what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingled storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On ev'ry nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast.
Ah, little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah, little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
All the sad variety of pain.
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame. How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point out the parting anguish! Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.
poem by James Thomson
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The Sons of Martha
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains ``Be ye removèd.'' They say to the lesser floods ``Be dry.''
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd---they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit---then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger Death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden---under the earthline their altars are---
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not preach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's ways may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with the blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd---they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the feet---they hear the Word---they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and---the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Returning From A Mountain Retreat And Finding You Not There
The old valley at Machayeng! So
Full of the bones of the warriors
Of our forefathers who in death
Trouble not the living.I wish people
Would respect the dead and it's wrong
To turn the graves of the dead into
Places of worship for the living
My friend! I challenge you to visit
The caves at Meqheleng! They are majestic!
The rock formations are intricate man!
I never in my life thought that nature
Could be so soothing to the soul
And it's sad and I am back in the sad
House.And I thought it was a sad empty
Threat you were making.And it has happened
And you have gone.And three sad years have
Passed and I have even forgotten in my
Sadness what it's like to make love
To a woman.But sad seasons come to pass
And sad men too pass away.And they live
Their sorrows behind for their sons
To inherit.No man in his right mind must
Tell his son to have male children
Better to have a daughter and have less
Troubles.I know my own sons each one of
The three of them died a violent death
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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The Toy Band
A Song of the Great Retreat
Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town,
Lights out and never a glint o' moon:
Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down,
Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon.
"Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again,
Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!
"Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me,
Penny whistles too to play the tune!
Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see
We're a band!" said the weary big Dragoon.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!"
Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night,
Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat;
Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight
With a little penny drum to lift their feet.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake, and take the raod again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!
As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me,
As long as I can tell the tale aright,
We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee
And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night,
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife, and drum!
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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On St. David's Day
To Mrs. E.C. Morrieson
’Twas not chance but deep design,
Tho’ of whom I can't divine
Made the courtly Valentine
(Corpulent saint and bishop)
Such a time with Bob to stay:-—
Let me now in bardish way
On your own St. David’s day
Toss you a simple dish up.
’Tis a tale we learnt at school,—
Oft we broke domestic rule,
Standing till our brows were cool
In the forbidden lobby.
There we talked and there we laughed,
Till the townsfolk thought us daft,
What of that? a thorough draft
Was and is still my hobby.
To my tale: In ancient days,
Ere men left the good old ways,
Lived a lady whose just praise
Passes all fancied glory.
Rich was she in field and store,
Richer in the sons she bore,
How could she be honoured more?
Listen and hear the story.
On a high and festive day
When the chariots bright and gay
To the temple far away
Passed in majestic order,—
When the hour was nigh at hand,
She who should have led the band
Found no oxen at command,
Searching through all her border
Then her two sons brave and strong
Gut their limbs with band and thong,
And before the wondering throng
Drew their exulting mother.
Swift and steady, on they came;
At the temple loud acclaim
Greeted that illustrious dame,
Blest above every other.
Then, while triumph filled her breast,
Loud she prayed above the rest,
Give my sons whatever best
Man may receive from heavers.
To the shrine the brothers stept,
Low they bowed, they sunk, they slept,
Stillness o’er their brave limbs crept:—
Rest was the guerdon given.
Such the simple story told,
By a sage renowned of old,
To a king whose fabled gold
Could not procure him learning.
Heathen was the sage indeed,
Yet his tale we gladly read,
Thro’ his dark and doubtful creed
Glimpses of Truth discerning.
Now no more the altar's blaze
Glares athwart our worldly haze,
Warning men how evil ways
Lead to just tribulation.
Now no more the temple stands,
Pointing out to godless lands
That which is not made with hands,
Even the whole Creation.
Ask no more, then, "what is best,
How shall those you love be blest,"
Ask at once, eternal Rest,
Peace and assurance giving.
Rest of Life and not of death,
Rest in Love and Hope and Faith,
Till the God who gives their breath
Calls them to rest from living.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Come Down This Road
Past this place in the road,
You shall see many people carying great load,
You may think to help, or just pass by,
It is up to you to know why.
Why you pass, why you stay,
But, caeful, from this road do not stray.
They shall show you how to learn how to know.
Some shall have their load taken, yet some shall never go,
The pain of it, the pain of trying.
Yet none shall know what it's like to be dying,
The laod shall never be gone, yet it could be lifted.
Each is different, each is gifted,
To your mind it is a burden, to your sould it is a part of you
You can not trade, for your soul is who you are, you can't start new.
As you travel down this road you will see,
That where it ends,
is eternity.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Encircled Triage
Life is an empty abode
Built on the verge of
An invisible road
Leading to perpetual death
Muted in an eternal mode
Deprived of an omen
Or a node
Red, yellow, green
Encircled in a triadic universal code.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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The Statesmen
How blest the land that counts among
Her sons so many good and wise,
To execute great feats of tongue
When troubles rise.
Behold them mounting every stump
Our liberty by speech to guard.
Observe their courage:-see them jump
And come down hard!
'Walk up, walk up!' each cries aloud,
'And learn from me what you must do
To turn aside the thunder cloud,
The earthquake too.
'Beware the wiles of yonder quack
Who stuffs the ears of all that pass.
I-I alone can show that black
Is white as grass.'
They shout through all the day and break
The silence of the night as well.
They'd make-I wish they'd _go_ and make
Of Heaven a Hell.
A advocates free silver, B
Free trade and C free banking laws.
Free board, clothes, lodging would from me
Win warm applause.
Lo, D lifts up his voice: 'You see
The single tax on land would fall
On all alike.' More evenly
No tax at all.
'With paper money' bellows E
'We'll all be rich as lords.' No doubt
And richest of the lot will be
The chap without.
As many 'cures' as addle wits
Who know not what the ailment is!
Meanwhile the patient foams and spits
Like a gin fizz.
Alas, poor Body Politic,
Your fate is all too clearly read:
To be not altogether quick,
Nor very dead.
You take your exercise in squirms,
Your rest in fainting fits between.
'T is plain that your disorder's worms
Worms fat and lean.
Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell
Within your maw and muscle's scope.
Their quarrels make your life a Hell,
Your death a hope.
God send you find not such an end
To ills however sharp and huge!
God send you convalesce! God send
You vermifuge.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Hateful Road
Oh pleasant things there be
Without this prison yard :
Fields green, and many a tree
With shadow on the sward,
And drifting clouds that pass
Saihng above the grass.
All lovely things that be
Beyond this strong abode
Send comfort back to me ;
Yea, everything I see
Except the hateful road ;
The road that runs so free
With many a dip and rise,
That waves and beckons me
And mocks and calls at me
And will not let me be
Even when I close my eyes.
poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Hot Water
Tell - me something
Why do I always find it hard just to get along
Try my best - for nothing
Every little thing I do is wrong
Feel it in my brain
Driving me insane
Round and round
The same old tune
Daddys on the phone
You know youre not alone
Turn that down
And clean up your room.
Sons and daughters
(dont fall in)
In hot water
Sons and daughters
(they dont do)
What they oughta
Tell (tell) you something
Music is the key to set me free
To the beat (on the street) Im jumping
Forgetting all the things they said bout me
Here it comes again
Chugging like a train
Round and round
An impeccable groove
I know its getting late
But I wont histate
Cant slow down
Got to do what I do
Sons and daughters
(always in)
In hot water
Wasting time
Is a crime in their eyes
But Im still young
So much time to decide - what to do ...
(I dont need confirmation
For my boyhood extrapolation
Though Im not sure of my direction
I have the groove for my protection)
Here it comes again
Chugging like a train
Round and round
An impeccable groove
I know its getting late
But I wont hesitate
Cant slow down
Got to do what I do
Sons and daughters
(dont fall in)
In hot water
(when they fall by the way)
Sons and daughters
(they dont do)
What they oughta
Tell me something
Where you staying tonight
Your folks
Have waited up for you
Now theyve locked the door
And turned off the light.
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Hymn To Woden
God of the battle, hear our prayer!
By the lifted falchion's glare;
By the uncouth fane sublime,
Marked with many a Runic rhyme;
By the 'weird sisters' dread,
That, posting through the battle red,
Choose the slain, and with them go
To Valhalla's halls below,
Where the phantom-chiefs prolong
Their echoing feast, a giant throng,
And their dreadful beverage drain
From the skulls of warriors slain:
God of the battle, hear our prayer;
And may we thy banquet share!
Save us, god, from slow disease;
From pains that the brave spirit freeze;
From the burning fever's rage;
From wailings of unhonoured age,
Drawing painful his last breath;
Give us in the battle death!
Let us lift our glittering shield,
And perish, perish in the field!
Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow
To death, or victory, we go;
Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare;
See! they bind their yellow hair;
Frenzy flashes from their eye,
They fly--our foes before them fly!
Woden, in thy empire drear,
Thou the groans of death dost hear,
And welcome to thy dusky hall
Those that for their country fall!
Hail, all hail the godlike train,
That with thee the goblet drain;
Or with many a huge compeer,
Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear!
Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread
Echo to their giant tread,
And ten thousand thousand shields
Flash lightning o'er the glimmering fields!
Hark! the battle-shouts begin--
Louder sounds the glorious din:
Louder than the ice's roar,
Bursting on the thawing shore;
Or crashing pines that strew the plain,
When the whirlwinds hurl the main!
Riding through the death-field red,
And singling fast the destined dead,
See the fatal sisters fly!
Now my throbbing breast beats high--
Now I urge my panting steed,
Where the foemen thickest bleed.
Soon exulting I shall go,
Woden, to thy halls below;
Or o'er the victims, as they die,
Chaunt the song of Victory!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Song: The Road to Nowhere
To travel the road to nowhere.
The soul's dark amazon.
Eternal peace is anywhere,
the mind might set upon.
To travel the road to nowhere.
To know you're really gone.
And when you finally get there,
to find your god is Ron.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
There's something in the dark.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
that leaves a lasting mark.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
Old secrets gather dust.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
that reeks decay and must.
To travel the road to nowhere.
Reading signposts from beyond.
As self-deceit completes defeat,
a cold ghost light is shone,
on Ron. On Ron.
He learned to sham at his father's knee.
He knew the power of story.
He lived by lies and fantasies,
and dreamed of fame and glory.
So travel the road but beware,
for he drew an arcane map.
His weak and dismal followers,
could see no fatal trap.
But in his inner circle,
his worth would soon reveal.
To those that rail and cavil,
he'd crush beneath his heel.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
The sweetest scent of musk.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
as warm and moist as lust.
To travel the road to nowhere.
It's not the smoothest ride.
To have all faith you must defer,
to a self-referring guide.
To travel the road to nowhere.
To avoid the rush and throng.
Unravel in the space of somewhere,
and sing a specious song.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
It's got an evil breath.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
that toys with fear and death.
To travel the road to nowhere.
And wield your magic wand.
A shuffling prisoner of despair,
when fragile hopes abscond.
To travel the road to nowhere.
A funeral dress you don.
All truth is moulded out there,
like a Sci-Fi writer's con.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
You hear it scratch and whine.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
both bedevilled and divine.
To travel the road to nowhere.
To follow a different sun.
To travel the road with due care,
not to end as you begun.
To travel the road to nowhere,
to life's grim denouement.
Be sighted by the cross hairs,
released from earthly bond.
To travel the road to nowhere.
Your face is drawn and wan.
Your self-belief masks hidden grief,
while the thief of time moves on.
poem by David SmithWhite
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