The Poet's Dead
The Poet's dead! - a slave to honor -
He fell, by rumor slandered,
Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge,
Hanging his proud head!...
The Poet's soul could not endure
Petty insult's disgrace.
Against society he rose,
Alone, as always...and was slain!
Slain!...What use is weeping now,
The futile chorus of empty praise
Excuses mumbled full of pathos?
Fate has pronounced its sentence!
Was it not you who spitefully
Rebuffed his free, courageous gift
And for your own amusement fanned
The nearly dying flame?
Well now, enjoy yourselves...he couldn't
Endure the final torture:
Quenched is the marvelous light of genius,
Withered is the triumphal wreath.
Cold-bloodedly his murderer
Took aim...there was no chance of flight:
His empty heart beat evenly,
The pistol steady in his hand.
No wonder...from far away
The will of fate sent him to us
Like hundreds of his fellow vagrants
In search of luck and rank;
With impudence he mocked and scorned
The tongue and mores of this strange land;
He could not spare our glory,
Nor in that bloody moment know
"gainst what he'd raised his hand!...
He's slain - and taken by the grave
Like that unknown, but happy bard,
Victim of jealousy wild,
Of whom he sang with wondrous power,
Struck down, like him, by an unyielding hand.
Why did he quit the blissful peace of simple fellowship
To enter this society, so envious and stifling
To hearts of free and fiery passion?
Why did he give his hand to worthless slanderers,
How could he have believed their hollow words
And kindness, he, who'd ever understood his fellow man?...
And they removed his wreath, and set upon his head
A crown of thorns entwined in laurel:
The hidden spines were cruel
And pierced his noble brow;
Poisoned were his final moments
By sly insinuations of mockers ignorant,
And thus he died - for vengeance vainly thirsting
Secretly vexed by false hopes deceived.
The wondrous singing's ceased,
T'will never sound again.
His refuge, gloomy and small,
His lips forever sealed.
___
And you, the offspring arrogant
Of fathers known for malice,
Crushing with slavish heels the ruins
Of clans aggrieved by fortune's game!
You, greedy hordes around the throne,
Killers of Freedom, Genius and Glory!
You hide beneath the canopy of law
Fall silent - truth and justice before you...
But justice also comes from God, corruption's friends!
The judge most terrible awaits you:
He's hardened to the clink of gold,
He knows your future thoughts and deeds.
Then will you turn in vain to lies:
They will no longer help.
And your black blood won't wash away
The poet's sacred blood!
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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On The Death Of Pushkin
He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A sacrifice to slander's lust;
The haughty Poet's head, the noblest,
Bowed on his wounded breast in dust.
No longer could his free soul suffer
The vulgar world's low infamy;
He rose against the world's opinion,
And as a hero, lone fell he.
He fell! To what avail the sobbing--
The useless choir of tears and praise?
Wretched the stammering excuses!
The Fates have spoke,--no power allays!
Have ye not at all times together
His sacred genius baited sore,
The silent fury fanned to flaming,
Delighted in your work before?
O be triumphant! Earthly torment
The Poet soul did fully bear,
Extinguished are the lights inspired,
The laurel crown lies leafless there!
The murderer contemptuous gazing
Did stedfastly his weapon aim,
No swifter beat his heart, Assassin!
Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.
No wonder; from a distance came he
As an adventurer unknown,
For worthy title, star of order--
Stood but his mad desire alone.
Sneering and self-complacent mocked he
The rights and customs of our land,
He could not understand our glory,
Against which he has raised his hand.
'Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung,
The Singer even as the song he sung;
Who of a hot, heroic mood,
In death disgraceful shed his blood!'
Why did he leave his home life tranquil,
To seek the envious market place,
Where each free flame is suffocated,
Expose him to the assassin base?
The human breed, who had known better
Since earliest years of youth, than he--
Why did he trust the false pretending
Of malice and hypocrisy?
Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him,
Gave him a martyr's crown instead,
And now the cruel thorns have pierced him
E'en to the blood of his proud head!
His last days were for him envenomed--
Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved,
He died revenge a'thirst, accusing
That every hope his heart deceived!
Mute evermore the magic echoes,
That ne'er shall wonders more reveal,
The Poet's home is dark and narrow--
Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless--
Defamers, faithless fathers, ye!
Who trod the pure soul of another
Beneath your feet, who zealously
Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling
For fame and freedom, hatred steeled!
Well may you sneer at truth and justice,
The law provides you screen and shield,
Only a higher law shall sentence!
A mighty Judge beyond assail
Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers,
The Highest Judge who does not fail!
So then calumniate with brazen courage,
Your hatred's fury nought restrains--
Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for
One drop within the Poet's pure veins.
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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Death of the Poet
How can one be betrayed by death
Be cheated out of living
Hate filled heart, blood shot eyes
Cold-bloodily will be of it
Heart empty beats uneven
Let I revenge all before death
With every breath vengeful fire
Let I take my life for you
Murder the old lady shall scream
Murder from the top of her lungs
The poets dead! - triumphal wreath
I am gone now to another planet
Please if not all hold onto my words
These are but just simple genius
Manifold a great poet of the time
I cut my wrist so I can write in blood
Paint a portrait of vivid images
Pull out my vain and hung it up
What a bloody mess I have caused
Shocked as their eyes wonders
They have seen the silent murder
They have slain the poet.
poem by Obinna Nwerem
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Bible in Poetry: Revelation 5
The Scroll and the Lamb:
1To His right hand, I saw a scroll,
With writing on both sides of it,
And sealed with seven seals as well.
2A mighty angel said aloud,
'Who is the worthy one to break
The seals and open scroll, Tell me? '
3But none in heaven or on earth
Or under earth could open scroll
Or look inside it anyway.
4I wept because no one was found
Who was worthy to open it.
5Then one of the elders said to me,
'Don’t weep! The Lion of the Judah tribe,
The Root of David has triumphed.
He will open the scroll and seals.'
6 I saw a Lamb that appeared slain,
And standing in the throne’s center,
Encircled by creatures, elders.
He had horns seven horns and like eyes,
Which are God’s seven big spirits
That are sent out into the earth.
7He took the scroll from his right hand.
8And when he had taken it thus,
The living creatures four fell down
Before the Lamb with the elders.
Each one possessed a harp with it,
And held gold bowls filled with incense,
Which are the prayers of the saints.
9And they sang a new song:
'Worthy are you to take the scroll
And open its seals,
Because you’re slain,
And with your blood,
You purchased men for God,
From every tribe and language,
And people and nation.”
10You’ve made them to be a kingdom,
And priests to serve our Lord and God,
And they will reign upon the earth.'
11And then, I looked and heard the voice
Of many angels, in thousands
Upon thousands in their numbers,
And ten thousand times, ten thousand,
They encircled the splendid throne,
And living creatures and the elders.
12In a loud voice they sang:
'O worthy is the Lamb, who’s slain,
To receive pow’r, wealth, wisdom, strength
And honor, glory and all praise! '
13 And then I heard every creature,
In heaven, earth and in the sea,
And all that is in them, singing:
'To Him who sits upon the throne
And to the Lamb, be praise, honor
Glory and power, forever! '
14The living creatures said, 'Amen, '
While elders fell down, worshiped Him.
poem by John Celes
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Tasso Dying
What festival is ancient Rome preparing?
Where flow the crowds in noisy waves?
Why these aromas, myrrh's sweet smoke
And censers all around abrim with fragrant herbs?
From Capitoline Hill to Tiber's waves,
Above universal city's streets,
Why are the priceless rugs and purple stuffs
Spread among garlands, laurels?
Why all this noise? The crash and thump of timpani?
Are these heralds of joy or triumph?
Why wearing the miter hastes the holy father
With gonfalon to the prayer house?
For whom doth thankful Rome's most valued gift,
The crown, in his hands shimmer?
For whom this triumph? - 'tis for you, o blessed bard!
For you this gift... Jerusalem's bard!
And now the joyful noise has reached the cell,
Where Death joins battle with Torquatto,
Where death's winged spirit swoops
Above the sufferer's blessed head.
Not weeping friends, nor praying monks,
Nor honor's late rewards
Can tame the iron hand of fate,
Which knows no mercy for the great.
Half-dead, he sees the horrid hour,
And blesses it with joy,
And parting with life, one final time,
The wondrous swan exclaims:
"My friends, O let me catch a glimpse of splendid Rome,
Where a too early grave awaits the bard!
Allow my glance to meet your hills and smoke,
O, ancient sepulcher of citizens!
O blessed land of heroes and of wonders!
Dust eloquent and ruins!
Azure and purple of cloudless skies,
You, poplars; and you, ancient olives.
Eternal Tiber, you, who slake the thirst of every tribe,
Sown with a universe of bones.
Doomed to an early end.
I greet you from within these dreary walls!
It's done! I stand before the fatal borne
To wild applause I won't step on Capitoline,
And glory's laurels on my feeble head
Won't sweeten the bard's frightful lot.
From youth I have been everybody's puppet.
I was an exile as a child,
I wandered, a poor traveler
Under the sweet Italian sky,
What turns of fate did I not suffer?
Where did the waves not toss my bark?
Where was I safe? Where was my daily bread
Not spattered with the tears of sorrow?
Sorrento! Cradle of my woe-filled days,
Where once at night, like a trembling Askania
Fate tore me from my mother's breast,
From her embraces sweet and kisses, -
Do you recall what tears I spilled in childhood
Alas! Since then, a plaything of cruel fate,
I've known great suffering, the poverty of life.
The depths by Fortune quarried.out
Beneath me, and the thunder never ceased!
Driven from place to place, from land to land,
In vain I sought a harbor on the earth:
I felt her hand relentless everywhere!
Her lightning everywhere harassed the bard!
Not in a peasant's meager hut,
Nor e'en protected by Alphonso's palace,
Nor under an obscure and silent roof,
Nor in the wilds, nor in the hills was my head safe.
Embittered by glory and ignominy alike,
An exile's head, from cradle consigned
Into the hands of an avenging goddess...
But friends! what clutches terribly my breast?
Why does my heart lament and tremble?
Whence do I come? What awful path have I been following,
And what behind me in the darkness gleams?
Ferrara...Furies...envy's serpent!..
Whither? O, whither, murderers of my gift!
I am in harbor. Here is Rome. My brothers and my kin!
Here are their tears and sweet embrace...
And Virgil's wreath upon the Capitoline hill.
Thus, I fulfilled Appollo's task.
From my first youth, his dedicated priest,
Through lightning, under raging skies,
I sang the grandeur glorious of bygone days,
In bondage I did not betray my soul,
It harbors still the muses' sweet delight,
And torments only reinforced my gift.
It lived in wonderland, by Zion's walls,
On Jordan's flowering shores;
It questioned you, impatient Cedron,
And you serene asylum of Lebanon!
It raised you from the dead, o heroes hoary,
To awesome glory's dazzle and grandeur:
It gazed upon you, Gottfried, ruler, king of kings,
Magnificent and calm 'midst whistling arrows;
On you, o young Rinaldo, ardent as Achilles,
In love and battle a blessed victor.
It watched you fly above the corpses of your foes,
Like fire, like death, like an avenging angel...
And Tartarus is vanquished by a shining cross!
O models of extraordinary valor!
O holy triumph of our ancestors,
Long laid to rest! Pure faith victorious!
Torquato has invoked you from the depths of time:
He sings - and you will never be forgot, -
He sings, and gains the wreath of immortality,
By glory woven and the muses' hands.
But it's too late! I stand before the fatal borne.
To wild applause I won't step on Capitoline,
And glory's laurels on my feeble head
Won't sweeten the bard's frightful lot.
He then fell mute, eyes burning with a doleful flame,
A final ray of talent 'ere the end;
Even in dying, it seemed he wished
To wrest a day of triumph from the Fates,
His gaze sought out the Capitoline walls,
He strained to raise himself,
But, spent by struggles terrible with death,
Remained immobile on his bed.
The golden orb was sliding to the west,
And sinking in a scarlet glow;
The hour of death approached...the sufferer's somber brow
Brightened a final time.
He gazed with quiet smile toward the west...
And then, refreshed by evening chill,
He raised his right hand to the listening heavens,
Like a full righteous man, with hope and joy:.
"See," to his weeping friends he quoth,
"The king of stars burns in the west!
'Tis he who summons me to cloudless lands,
Where the eternal star will shine...
I see the angel to that realm my guide;
He has enfolded me in azure wings...
Bring close the sign of love - the cross mysterious...
And pray with hope and tears...
All earthly things must die...both glory and the crown...
Art and the muses' great creations,
But there all's neverending like our God
Who vouchsafes us eternal glory's crown!
The greatness of that place has filled my soul,
I've breathed it since my cradle days.
O brothers! Friends! Don't weep for me:
Your friend's attained his long-sought goal.
He will depart in peace and, strong of faith,
He will not heed the agonizing end:
There, there...O joy!..among the righteous wives,
Among the angels, Elenora waits!"
And, uttering the name of love, the heav'nly poet died;
In silence friends wept over him,
The day died quietly... the voice of bells
Bore the unhappy news through city streets.
"Torquatto's gone!" Rome cried in grief,
"Our bard is dead, so worthy of a better life!..
The morning witnessed somber smoke.
The Capitoline in mourning cloaked..
poem by Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov
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The Cloud Confines
The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The Past is over and fled;
Nam'd new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of hate
That beats in thy breast, O Time?--
Red strife from the furthest prime,
And anguish of fierce debate;
War that shatters her slain,
And peace that grinds them as grain,
And eyes fix'd ever in vain
On the pitiless eyes of Fate.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of love
That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?--
Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban
Of fangs that mock them above;
Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,
Thy hope that a breath dispels,
Thy bitter forlorn farewells
And the empty echoes thereof?
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not,
Our future's a seal'd seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we?--
We who say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Jean Desprez
Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance,
Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;
A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.
With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,
And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;
Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.
"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said.
"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.
Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;
Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,
Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;
Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.
A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They weltered in their blood.
But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;
A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die."
He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . .
A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.
They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.
With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.
A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;
He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie.
"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;
"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."
With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,
And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,
And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,
The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.
But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,
Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:
"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ."
It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;
It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim
And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.
A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.
The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.
His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:
"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.
Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare;
Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,
And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand
The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.
And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,
Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."
They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die."
The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.
And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.
"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;
And I will murmur: Vive La France! and bless you ere I die."
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;
Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.
He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;
And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!
The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this:
This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;
A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."
They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;
The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,
The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.
Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . .
"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.
Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . the Prussian Major dead!
poem by Robert William Service
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The Song Of The Pacifist
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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Sketch of Lord Byron's Life
"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.
The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.
Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.
He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.
Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.
Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.
He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Final Cut
Hell awaits & heaven won’t take me
I am in between planes
the final cut has been made
blood ooze out but I can’t feel the pain.
My bloodeth blood stops the time; for
Lucifer to arrive
elated, trying to take me to hell.
He says oh! Well
how you’ve become so heavy.
This is the miracle of the soul in slain,
he askth whose soul is in refrain.
It’s my very own Lucifer I said,
You are willing to give your life
for a cause he asked
Your son, the evil trying to impart and enter this world
thru a noble soul,
I have heeded to save this and devastate
and make your son’s play
A foul.
My blood oozes out from this cut
Save your son or save me
I know you would like to keep my soul.
Lend me thy hand to see this
this manifestation done by evil
I know you love thy son; but
as this is the final cut
poem by Himanshu Sanghani
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The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Over With A Revolver
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Closure too so many traumatic events.
From the mountain into the great valley is the descent.
The weight is so heavy.
Yet I'm still dragging it.
Sooner or latter we all have let it go.
And this time it is all I know.
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Such devotion has been through such a roller coaster ride.
An ocean tells me secrets of making a disposal.
Time to get rid of the time when you made your proposal.
An identity I must hide.
Let smoke and mirrors reflect the biggest lie.
An illusion within the eyes.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
I blame no one.
I blame everyone.
A fault can not be defined by a single event.
An preposterous idea that it was something that you could prevent.
The poison was already in my system.
It spoke in demon tongues.
A evil energy already breathing among the living.
My heart was already gone.
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Of all emotion.
The tears will never fall again.
A mother is cradling a already forgotten grave.
The death to the foolish moth willing to enter flame.
A forsaken child of god is one that does not know he has sinned.
A sentence of unknown hurt and pain.
An experience of the insane.
He sits upon the killing fields with bloody hands.
For him this is no game and it will have no easy ending.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Of all emotion.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Hanging from a Blood Soaked Tree
Hanging from a Blood Soaked Tree
By: Adam M. Snow
One morn as under a great tree I lay,
Misery held me in its pain-filled sway.
I dreamt of a life where I wasn't numb,
Sleepwalking my way toward the dusk to come.
I felt sweat drops that I thought were rain,
And opening my eyes, saw a man hung in pain.
His feet were crossed and his arms stretched wide;
I could see no life in this man. Had he died?
Arose a voice from the blood soaked tree,
'I died for you so that you are free.'
I sat there stunned in my ignorant sleep,
My curiosity teased by a tree that speaks.
I lingered in repose, knowing not what was said;
Clinging to the echoing voice in my head-
'I did this for you.'
With eyes of blue-
He wept.
His head was pierced with thorns claw-like,
And each hand was nailed by a rusty spike.
He calls to me by my name,
I couldn't help it but show my shame.
Words arose from his lips,
As his blood still drips.
His voice so dear,
So pure, so clear;
Spoken once more-
His voice was dear as it said to me,
'I died for you so that you are free.'
There then rose a light, blinding as the morn;
'Fear not, ' he said 'For I am reborn'
'Behold, ' he said, 'My blood is made pure,
I am not dead, I am dying's cure! '
His voice drew near, and whispered he:
'I died for you so that you are free.'
poem by Adam M. Snow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bryant On His Birthday
We praise not now the poet's art,
The rounded beauty of his song;
Who weighs him from his life apart
Must do his nobler nature wrong.
Not for the eye, familiar grown
With charms to common sight denied,
The marvellous gift he shares alone
With him who walked on Rydal-side;
Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay,
Too grave for smiles, too sweet for tears;
We speak his praise who wears to-day
The glory of his seventy years.
When Peace brings Freedom in her train,
Let happy lips his songs rehearse;
His life is now his noblest strain,
His manhood better than his verse!
Thank God! his hand on Nature's keys
Its cunning keeps at life's full span;
But, dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these,
The poet seems beside the man!
So be it! let the garlands die,
The singer's wreath, the painter's meed,
Let our names perish, if thereby
Our country may be saved and freed!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Invincible Armada
She comes, she comes--the burden of the deeps!
Beneath her wails the universal sea!
With clanking chains and a new god, she sweeps,
And with a thousand thunders, unto thee!
The ocean-castles and the floating hosts--
Ne'er on their like looked the wild water!--Well
May man the monster name "Invincible."
O'er shuddering waves she gathers to thy coasts!
The horror that she spreads can claim
Just title to her haughty name.
The trembling Neptune quails
Under the silent and majestic forms;
The doom of worlds in those dark sails;--
Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the storms!
Before thee, the array,
Blest island, empress of the sea!
The sea-born squadrons threaten thee,
And thy great heart, Britannia!
Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud--
She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud!
Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave,
That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations?
To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave,
Till freedom dug from law its deep foundations;
The mighty Chart the citizens made kings,
And kings to citizens sublimely bowed!
And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water,
Hast thou not rendered millions up to slaughter,
When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings
The sceptre--and the shroud?
What should'st thou thank?--Blush, earth, to hear and feel
What should'st thou thank?--Thy genius and thy steel!
Behold the hidden and the giant fires!
Behold thy glory trembling to its fall!
Thy coming doom the round earth shall appal,
And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee,
And all free souls their fate in thine foresee--
Theirs is thy glory's fall!
One look below the Almighty gave,
Where streamed the lion-flags of thy proud foe;
And near and wider yawned the horrent grave.
"And who," saith He, "shall lay mine England low--
The stem that blooms with hero-deeds--
The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs--
The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain?
Who shall bid England vanish from the main?
Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew,
Man's stout defence from power, to fate consigned."
God the Almighty blew,
And the Armada went to every wind!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Hymn 1
A new song to the Lamb that was slain.
Rev. 5:6-12
Behold the glories of the Lamb
Amidst his Father's throne;
Prepare new honors for his name,
And songs before unknown.
Let elders worship at his feet,
The church adore around,
With vials full of odors sweet,
And harps of sweeter sound.
Those are the prayers of the saints,
And these the hymns they raise,
Jesus is kind to our Complaints,
He loves to hear our praise.
[Eternal Father, who shall look
Into thy secret will?
Who but the Son shall take that book,
And open every sea]?
He shall fulfil thy great decrees,
The Son deserves it well:
Lo! in his hand the sovereign keys
Of heav'n, and death, and hell!]
Now to the Lamb that once was slain
Be endless blessings paid;
Salvation, glory, joy, remain
For ever on thy head.
Thou hast redeemed our souls with blood,
Hast set the pris'ners free;
Hast made us kings and priests to God,
And we shall reign with thee.
The worlds of nature and of grace
Are put beneath thy power;
Then shorten these delaying days,
And bring the promised hour.
poem by Isaac Watts
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To a silent poet
I see the sons of Genius rise
The nobles of our land;
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet band.
That Priesthood of the beautiful,
To whom alone 'tis given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
Back to their native heaven.
But there is one amid the throng,
Not past his manhood's prime;
The laurel wreath upon his brow,
Has greener grown with time.
And in his eye yet glows the light
Of the celestial fire;
But cast beside him, on the earth,
Is his neglected lyre.
The lyre, whose high, heroic notes
A thousand hearts have stirred,
Lies mute, -- the skillful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.
Oh poet! rouse thee from thy dreams!
Wake from thy voiceless slumbers!
And once again give to the breeze
The music of thy numbers.
Sing, for our country claims her bard,
She listens for thy strains;
Sing, for upon our jarring earth,
Too much of discord reigns.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Reckoning
(Chorus)
Destiny spawned us, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, don't tread on me
Revenge is not justice, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, yeah don't tread on me
You went too far this time, for this heinous crime
You will know defeat, begging on your knees
One by one you'll fall, your back against the wall
Nowhere to turn, your sure to burn
(Chorus)
Destiny spawned us, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, don't tread on me
The hours close at hand, I'll make my final stand
Justice shall be done, nowhere to run
True evil grows in you, you're just a brainwashed fool
The coward close that hides, spewing forth his lies
(Chorus)
Revenge is not justice, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, yeah don't tread on me
Born of destruction, bred in agony
Is this my salvation?
From these ashes of your devastation
If it was up to me, eye for an eye I say
With a hammer we will take, Lady Justice is asleep
The Judgement has been made, in blood it shall be paid
Death knows what to do, the horseman comes for you.
(Chorus)
Destiny spawned us, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, don't tread on me
Revenge is not justice, it's the reckoning
This time it's our blood, yeah don't tread on me
song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To a Poet, Charles Bridges
THOU singest, thou, me seems,
Coming from high Parnassus; where thy head
Beside the silent streams,
Among fast-fading blooms, hath fashioned
A pillow of pale dreams;
While from thee, sleeping, gods, of heart and soul,
Have taken fullest toll.
Thou knowest at what cost
Thy sleep was taken on those awful hills--
What thou hast gained, and lost;
Thou knowest, too, if what thou art fulfils
The pledge of what thou wast;
And if all compensates the poet's wreath
That wounds the brow beneath.
Rememberest thou that night
Incomparable? Thou in dreams wast laid,
Where petals, rose and white,
Above thy head a pale pavilion made;
Where at unscalèd height
The moon lay anchored in the heaving sky,
And clouds went surging by.
Then came the gods unknown!--
The plundering gods--to take thee unawares,
While thou wast sleeping, thrown
Upon the sacred mountain that is theirs.
In vain sad flowers had blown
A gale of petals o'er thee, on they came
In a still sheet of flame!
They knew that those who dare
To sleep one night beside Parnassus' streams
The poet's crown must wear--
Must lip the chalice of immortal dreams,
And breathe the eternal air;
Who, even unto trembling Ossa's hill,
May walk the mount at will!
They killed thy happiness,
And strangled all thy youth, with hands profane,
They brake Love's rosaries,
Tossing thy ravaged soul amid the slain,
While thou wast weaponless;
And left thee gibbeted 'twixt pain and peace,
Forbidding thy release.
Then they augustly laid
Their crippled gifts beside thee, and withdrew
Into high Pelion's shade;
Their tireless feet made fall no bead of dew,
Their passing bent no blade,
Though thunder muttered round each mighty plume,
And crumbled into gloom.
They laid a fatal spell
Of beauty on thine eyes, that made most fair
The rose unpluckable;
They bade thee thirst, yet find no Cup to bear
Water from any well;
They mocked thee with a vision passionate,
And a soul celibate!
O friend, what thou hast known
Thou givest me; what thou hast suffered, thou
Wouldst calmly bear alone;
Forbidding thorns to gather on my brow,--
Accustomed on thine own;
Thou lingerest at my side, to show and spare
The pitfall and the snare.
For thou wouldst give to me
The poet's pillow, who has suffered not
The poet's penalty;
A goodly heritage, a happy lot
Wouldst have my portion be.
With honey from the rod art fain to feed,
Not from the galled reed.
Thou hast some rare reward!
The reed that gods have guided, in thine hand
Becomes a dreadful sword;
Their fingers on thy heartstrings still demand
A loud, triumphant chord:
They pass the ditch-delivered poets by,
With wide contemptuous eye.
Poet: I take thy cup:
But, from my coloured wreath of morning flowers
Where bees wild honey sup,
Upon thy sepulchre of buried hours
Am fain to offer up
Some bud, that spills upon thy brow anew
Its fragile shell of dew.
And if at last I choose
To make my pillow on some slope forlorn,
And, in that slumber, lose
My morning wreath, that must be tossed and torn
To feed the jealous Muse,
Remember the poor gifts that I resign . . .
I shall remember thine!
poem by Muriel Stuart
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I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
quote by William Faulkner
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Psalm 75
Power and government from God alone.
[Applied to the glorious Revolution by King William, or the happy accession of King George to the throne.]
To thee, most Holy and most High,
To thee we bring our thankful praise;
Thy works declare thy name is nigh,
Thy works of wonder and of grace.
Britain was doomed to be a slave,
Her frame dissolved, her fears were great;
When God a new supporter gave,
To bear the pillars of the state.
He from thy hand received his crown,
And sware to rule by wholesome laws;
His foot shall tread th' oppressor down,
His arm defend the righteous cause.
Let haughty sinners sink their pride,
Nor lift so high their scornful head;
But lay their foolish thoughts aside,
And own the king that God hath made.
Such honors never come by chance,
Nor do the winds promotion blow;
'Tis God the Judge doth one advance,
'Tis God that lays another low.
No vain pretence to royal birth
Shall fix a tyrant on the throne:
God, the great Sovereign of the earth,
Will rise and make his justice known.
[His hand holds out the dreadful cup
Of vengeance mixed with various plagues,
To make the wicked drink them up,
Wring out and taste the bitter dregs.
Now shall the Lord exalt the just;
And while he tramples on the proud,
And lays their glory in the dust,
My lips shall sing his praise aloud.]
poem by Isaac Watts
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