En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Joseph Warren, M. D.

TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield
Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe,
By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw,
Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield
The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field
The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low,
Seeking its noblest victim. Even so
The charter of a nation must be sealed!
The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned,
From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed.
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound;
Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed,
Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed
Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Love Is The Healer (Album Version)

So many times in my life
I've been alone, left alone
Heart broken and
Turned around
I find myself
Crying in the night time
Dying out loud
In the night i sleeplessly
Wake up
From a dream that's
Tormenting me
I, i, i, i, i gotta get help
Oh, yeah
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
Late at night i was afraid
And i tried to turn away
I was afraid to face
What in-evil-it-able is
Say you know the way
To find true freedom
Can you save yourself
From the pain you're feeling
Something in my head
That you're dreaming
That the angels said
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
Love...is the healer
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Do you know the way to love
Do you know the place of love
Do you know what love
Can do
Do you know what
It'll do for you

song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Is The Healer

So many times in my life
Ive been alone, left alone
Heart broken and
Turned around
I find myself
Crying in the night time
Dying out loud
In the night I sleeplessly
Wake up
From a dream thats
Tormenting me
I, i, i, i, I gotta get help
Oh, yeah
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
Late at night I was afraid
And I tried to turn away
I was afraid to face
What in-evil-it-able is
Say you know the way
To find true freedom
Can you save yourself
From the pain youre feeling
Something in my head
That youre dreaming
That the angels said
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Come heal me
Love is the healer
Love is the healer
Set me free
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
I am on a mission, a mission of love
Love...is the healer
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Love is the healer
Come as a healer
Set me free
Do you know the way to love
Do you know the place of love
Do you know what love
Can do
Do you know what
Itll do for you

song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chaplet

A little girl through field and wood
Went plucking flowerets here and there,
When suddenly beside her stood
A lady wondrous fair!

The lovely lady smiled, and laid
A wreath upon the maiden's brow;
'Wear it, 'twill blossom soon,' she said,
'Although 'tis leafless now.'

The little maiden older grew
And wandered forth of moonlight eves,
And sighed and loved as maids will do;
When, lo! her wreath bore leaves.

Then was our maid a wife, and hung
Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom;
When from the garland's leaves there sprung
Fair store of blossom.

And presently a baby fair
Upon her gentle breast she reared;
When midst the wreath that bound her hair
Rich golden fruit appeared.

But when her love lay cold in death,
Sunk in the black and silent tomb,
All sere and withered was the wreath
That wont so bright to bloom.

Yet still the withered wreath she wore;
She wore it at her dying hour;
When, to the wondrous garland bore
Both leaf, and fruit, and flower!

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Victims

An unassailable victory has been in demand,
To forgo is to relax and be polite like a mummy.
To abjure the heaven is to relate to disorder,
And where is now the victory? Where now?

My victim is completely with defeat,
His victory has cancelled due to defeat
And my revenge, for it is never wrong.
Revenge gave innocence to the soul.

My living is for the one who lives the longest,
The death of the victim is important;
Likewise, the life of a victim is so great
That I need to repent and be forgiven.

Sins are a waste of time to some who denounce,
They let evils destroy us, with sins to double.
Victims of displeasures need favours of greatness,
The whole year passes without a thought for others.

poem by Naveed Akram
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October 21, 1905

The hundred years have passed, and he
Whose name appeased a nation's fears,
As with a hand laid over sea;
To thunder through the foeman's ears
Defeat before his blast of fire;
Lives in the immortality
That poets dream and noblest souls desire.

Never did nation's need evoke
Hero like him for aid, the while
A Continent was cannon-smoke
Or peace in slavery: this one Isle
Reflecting Nature: this one man
Her sea-hound and her mortal stroke,
With war-worn body aye in battle's van.

And do we love him well, as well
As he his country, we may greet,
With hand on steel, our passing bell
Nigh on the swing, for prelude sweet
To the music heard when his last breath
Hung on its ebb beside the knell,
And VICTORY in his ear sang gracious Death.

Ah, day of glory! day of tears!
Day of a people bowed as one!
Behold across those hundred years
The lion flash of gun at gun:
Our bitter pride; our love bereaved;
What pall of cloud o'ercame our sun
That day, to bear his wreath, the end achieved.

Joy that no more with murder's frown
The ancient rivals bark apart.
Now Nelson to brave France is shown
A hero after her own heart:
And he now scanning that quick race,
To whom through life his glove was thrown,
Would know a sister spirit to embrace.

poem by George Meredith
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We are called the nation of inventors. And we are. We could still claim that title and wear its loftiest honors if we had stopped with the first thing we ever invented, which was human liberty.

quote by Mark Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The New Crusade

LIFE is a trifle;
Honor is all;
Shoulder the rifle;
Answer the call.
'A nation of traders'!
We'll show what we are,
Freedom's crusaders
Who war against war.
Battle is tragic;
Battle shall cease;
Ours is the magic
Mission of Peace.
'A nation of traders'!
We'll show what we are,
Freedom's crusaders
Who war against war.
Gladly we barter
Gold of our youth
For Liberty's charter
Blood-sealed in truth.
'A nation of traders'!
We'll show what we are,
Freedom's crusaders
Who war against war.
Sons of the granite,
Strong be our stroke,
Making this planet
Safe for the folk.
'A nation of traders'!
We'll show what we are,
Freedom's crusaders
Who war against war.
Life is but passion,
Sunshine on dew.
Forward to fashion
The old world anew!
'A nation of traders'!
We'll show what we are,
Freedom's crusaders
Who war against war.

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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It was the boast of Augustus that he found Rome of brick and left it of marble. But how much nobler will be the sovereign's boast when he shall have it to say that he found law... a sealed book and left it a living letter found it the patrimony of the rich and left it the inheritance of the poor found it the two-edged sword of craft and oppression and left it the staff of honesty and the shield of innocence.

quote by Henry Brougham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Survivors

NOW they sing the hero loud; --
But they sing him in his shroud.

Torch he kindled for his land;
On his brow ye set its brand.

Taught by him to wield a glaive;
Through his heart the steel ye drave.

Trolls he smote in hard-fought fields;
Ye bore him down 'twixt traitor shields.

But the shining spoils he won,
These ye treasure as your own.--

Dim them not, that so the dead
Rest appeased his thorn-crowned head.

poem by Henrik Johan Ibsen
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Hymn Read At The Dedication Of The Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospital At Hudson, Wisconsin

JUNE 7, 1877

ANGEL of love, for every grief
Its soothing balm thy mercy brings,
For every pang its healing leaf,
For homeless want, thine outspread, wings.

Enough for thee the pleading eye,
The knitted brow of silent pain;
The portals open to a sigh
Without the clank of bolt or chain.

Who is our brother? He that lies
Left at the wayside, bruised and sore
His need our open hand supplies,
His welcome waits him at our door.

Not ours to ask in freezing tones
His race, his calling, or his creed;
Each heart the tie of kinship owns,
When those are human veins that bleed.

Here stand the champions to defend
From every wound that flesh can feel;
Here science, patience, skill, shall blend
To save, to calm, to help, to heal.

Father of Mercies! Weak and frail,
Thy guiding hand Thy children ask;
Let not the Great Physician fail
To aid us in our holy task.

Source of all truth, and love, and light,
That warm and cheer our earthly days,
Be ours to serve Thy will aright,
Be Thine the glory and the praise!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A True Hero

JAMES BRAIDWOOD: Died June 22, 1861.

NOT at the battle front,--writ of in story;
Not on the blazing wreck steering to glory;

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
Died he--this Hero new; hero forever.

No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him,
No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him:

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty,
Only an honest man doing his duty:

Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,
Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy:

Death found--and touched him with finger in flying:--
Lo! he rose up complete--hero undying.

Now, all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him
Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

Tell his last act, done midst peril appalling,
And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;
Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,
Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

Then the LORD calls His own,--like this man, even,
Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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A Hymn to the Unsung Heroes

Under the green sods, lie unknown
The mighty warriors of our land.
Strong and steadfast they marched to the field,
Wielding weapons in their hand.

Their daring and their deeds of grit,
Secured freedom for our land.
Blessed be the wombs that bore,
Those dauntless men of fiery brand.

Plucked away from hearth and kin,
They oft dwelt in lands unknown.
Many a laurel they had won.
Living a dismal life forlorn.

Lay in ambush in dingy trench
Crossed swords with formidable might
Starved to death in enemy camps
Fought with verve for country's right

The resolute brigade knew no rest
Ease and comfort, they had none
To drill and discipline, they were wed
Life's winsome pleasures, they did shun

Bravely bared their manly breasts
Before triggered guns and flying bullets
Shed out every dropp of blood
To save the nation from rival blasts

Long, long may their memories last
Let every tongue their daring praise
Let the Nation bow its head
Let their deeds, our morale raise.

poem by Valsa George
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The battle of life

THERE are countless fields the green earth o'er,
Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore;
Where hostile ranks in their grim array,
With the battle's smoke have obscured the day;
Where hate has stamped on each rigid face
As foe met foe in the death embrace;
Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose,
Till the heart of the listener with horror froze,
And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain
Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain: --
But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife,
Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life.

The hero that wars on the tented field,
With his shining sword and his burnished shield,
Goes not alone with his faithful brand,
Friends and comrades around him stand;
The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh,
To join in the shock of the coming fray,

And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe,
Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow;
And he bears his part in the conflict dire,
With an arm all nerve, and a heart all fire.
What though he fall! at the battle's close,
In the flush of victory won, he goes,
With martial music and waving plume,
From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb.
But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life,
Must stand alone in the fearful strife;
Alone in his weakness or strength must go,
Hero or craven to meet the foe;
He may not fly, -- on that fated field,
He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield.
Warrior who com'st to this battle now,
With a careless step and a thoughtless brow,
As if the field were already won;
Pause, and gird all thy armor on.
Myriads have Come to this battle-ground,
With a valiant arm and a name renowned,
And have fallen vanquished, to rise no more,
Ere the sun was set, or the day half o'er.

Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will,
An ardent soul that no blast can chill;
Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved;
Canst thou say to the mountain -- " Be thou moved;"
In thy hand does the sword of truth flame bright;
Is thy banner emblazoned -- "For God and the Right;"
In the might of prayer, dost thou strive and plead?
Never had warrior greater need.
Unseen foes in thy pathway hide;
Thou art encompassed on every side.
There Pleasure waits, with her syren train,
Her poison flowers and her hidden chain;
Hope, with her Dead Sea fruits, is there;
Sin is spreading her gilded snare;
Flattery courts, with her hollow smiles;
Passion with silvery tone beguiles;
Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave:
Trust not too deeply, they may deceive.
Disease with a ruthless hand would smite,
and Care spread o'er thee a with'ring blight;
Hate and Envy, with visage black,
And the serpent Slander are on thy track;
Guilt and Falsehood, Remorse and Pride,
Doubt and Despair in thy pathway glide;
Haggard Want, in her demon joy,
Waits to degrade thee and then destroy;
Palsied Age in the distance lies,
And watches his victim with rayless eyes;
And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near,
To snatch from they grasp all thou holdest dear.
No skill may avail, and no ambush hide,
In the open field must the champion bide,
And face to face, and hand to hand,
Alone in his valor confront that band.
In war with these phantoms that gird him round,
No limbs dissevered may strew the ground;
No blood may flow, andno mortal ear
The groans of the wounded heart may hear,
As it struggles and writhes in their dread control,
As the iron enters the riven soul.
But the youthful form grows wasted and weak,
And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek;
The brow is furrowed, but not with years;
The eye is dimmed with its secret tears,
And streaked with white is the raven hair:
These are the tokens of conflict there.

The battle is over; the hero goes,
Scarred and worn, to his last repose.
He has won the day, he has conquered Doom,
He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb.
For the victor's glory no voices plead,
Fame has no echo, and earth no meed.
But the guardian angels are hovering near;
They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here,
And they bear him now, on their wings away,
To a realm of peace, -- to a cloudless day.
Ended now is the earthly strife,
And his brow is crowned with the Crown of Life.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Field of Battle

I walked the field of battle,
eerie silence accompanied me.
The bitter odor of confrontation,
lingered mutely in the air.

I trod where warriors clashed.
Did my imagination soar, or.
Could I hear in the quiet,
sounds of dying souls?

Everywhere I stepped, I touched,
mute tokens of conflict.
Haunting evidence of siege.
I shuddered as the chill of fear caressed me.

On scorched earth a helmet laid.
What account might it cradle?
Who once had been its owner?
Had it been discarded, or orphaned?

An empty boot, a broken blade,
a long gun supported by bayonet.
Dented helmet graced the butt.
Had once young hero rested here?

In this field of battle,
‘midst smoke, fire, screams.
Did valor accompany fear,
and violence cultivate history?

What lie hidden, covered,
in these now so silent meads?
Were fainthearted to become hero,
had victors, and vanquished, dwelled together?

I wondered,
as I walked the field of battle.

10FEB06

poem by Kurt Hearth
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Hymn At The Funeral Services Of Charles Sumner

APRIL 29, 1874

SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND

ONCE more, ye sacred towers,
Your solemn dirges sound;
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,
Once more to deck his mound.
A nation mourns its dead,
Its sorrowing voices one,
As Israel's monarch bowed his head
And cried, 'My son! My son!'

Why mourn for him?--For him
The welcome angel came
Ere yet his eye with age was dim
Or bent his stately frame;
His weapon still was bright,
His shield was lifted high
To slay the wrong, to save the right,--
What happier hour to die?

Thou orderest all things well;
Thy servant's work was done;
He lived to hear Oppression's knell,
The shouts for Freedom won.
Hark!! from the opening skies
The anthem's echoing swell,--
'O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes!
God reigneth. All is well!'

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Bar Kochba

Weep, Israel! your tardy meed outpour
Of grateful homage on his fallen head,
That never coronal of triumph wore,
Untombed, dishonored, and unchapleted.
If Victory makes the hero, raw Success
The stamp of virtue, unremembered
Be then the desperate strife, the storm and stress
Of the last Warrior Jew. But if the man
Who dies for freedom, loving all things less,
Against world-legions, mustering his poor clan;
The weak, the wronged, the miserable, to send
Their death-cry's protest through the ages' span-
If such an one be worthy, ye shall lend
Eternal thanks to him, eternal praise.
Nobler the conquered than the conqueror's end!

poem by Emma Lazarus
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War + Lives - add Love = Freedom

A nation born from war, for the “purpose” of establishing freedom
A nation divided in war, in an “attempt” to fulfill the goal of freedom
A nation engaged in world wars, in the task of “preserving” freedom
A nation policing the world, in the “pursuit” of freedom

So many young lives have been lost, for the “cause” of freedom
Let us remember those who paid the “ultimate price, ” for freedom
And dear God, please tell us! - “What! ” - is freedom?
“Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing
To play in face of certain defeat.” Ralph Ellison

'We need not war'

We need not war, to show us how freedom is made
What we need is love to show us how freedom is played.
For freedom is not - but to “do as we please”
But rather to “please others” - because of what we achieve
“To serve requires love, only with love to we attain freedom”

poem by Dave Tanguay
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A Hero?

Her hero is pretty and thin
Her hero is a hero to many
A hero of fame and a hero of fortune
A role model, a hero of glamour
Her hero is a hero to many

His hero is fit and fast
His hero is a hero to many
A hero of sport, a hero of games
A role model, a hero of victory
His hero is a hero to many

Her hero is clever yet plane
Her hero is a hero to few
A hero of science, a hero of logic
A role model, a hero of knowledge
Her hero is a hero to few

His hero is a hero of art but he is poor
His hero is a hero to few
A hero of word a hero of writings
A role model, a hero of language
His hero is a hero to few

But that’s the thing with your heros....
Hero worship is only skin deep.

poem by Timothy Venard
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The Garlands

KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer for laurel
May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us;
Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting
High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour!
Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together,
Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one:
There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his numbers,
Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent
And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation
There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering
Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A Song Of Trafalgar

LIKE an angry sun, like a splendid star,
War gleams down the long years' track;
They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,
And who shall hold them back?
'Let loose the pack: we are English bred,
We will meet them full and fair
With the flag of England over our head,
And his hand to keep it there!'

So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,
Blew brave to the north and south;
An iron answer we gave the world,
For we spoke by the cannon's mouth.
But he who taught us the word to say
Grew dumb as his Victory sang,
And England mourned on her triumph day,
And wept while her joy-bells rang.

Long hour by hour, and long day by day,
The swift years crept apace,
The patient, the coral-insect way,
To cover the dear dead face.
O foolish rabble of envious years,
Who wist not the dead must rise,
His name is music still in our ears,
His face a light to our eyes!

Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign
Of a deathless love and pride;
These cling more close than the laurels twine,
They are strong as the world is wide:
At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad
Shall glory and love be laid,
While Glory sings to an English lad,
Or Love to an English maid.

Wherever the gleams of an English fire
On an English roof-tree shine,
Wherever the fire of a youth's desire
Is laid upon Honour's shrine,
Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,
In the tale of the deeds of yore
Like jewels of price in a chain of gold
Are the name and the fame he bore.

Wherever the track of our English ships
Lies white on the ocean foam,
His name is sweet to our English lips
As the names of the flowers at home;
Wherever the heart of an English boy
Grows big with a deed of worth,
Such names as his name have begot the same,
Such hearts will bring it to birth.

They say that his England, grown tired and old,
Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;
They say her hands have the grasp of the gold
But not the grip of the sword,
That her robe of glory is rent and shred,
And that winds of shame blow through:
Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,
In the deeds you would have her do!

Small skill have we to fight with the pen
Who fought with the sword of old,
For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen
Is as much as one hand can hold.
Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,
And the coward and the wise choose these;
But fools and brave were our English crews
When Nelson swept the seas.

'Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,
To ponder and pause and plan,
But the way of Nelson was better yet,
For that was the way of a man;
They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,
They have bidden us palter and pray,
But the way of Nelson was good enough,
For that was the fighting way.

If Nelson's England must stoop to bear
What never honour should brook,
In vain does the tomb of her hero wear
The laurel his brow forsook;
In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,
If now must her lips refrain;
In vain has she made us, her living sons,
Her dead have made her in vain.

So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,
Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,
And wreathe his column with laurel round
To point his fame to the skies;
But the greenest laurel that ever grew
Is the laurel that's yet to win;
Crowned with his laurels he waits for You
To bring Your laurels in!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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