The Conquerors
THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA
Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won,
Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun,
Goes the word.
Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun.
Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun,
The world heard.
Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray,
Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray
From the fight.
Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay,
Owning you fit for the light of her day,
Men of night.
Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come,
There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb,
Out of fear.
And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum,
Truth shall rise over the militant drum,
Loud and clear.
Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows,
All for their love of you, not for your woes,
There shall lie
Tears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose;
Afterward thanks, that the present yet knows
Not to ply!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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An Echoing Truth
In a world of right and wrong, we have Truth, that echoes strong,
And from the world’s ancient past, God’s Truth shall forever last,
To be for men a guide and light, for discerning wrong from right;
God’s Guiding Truth for every need, when souls choose to heed.
God’s Word echoes loud and clear, as men of true wisdom fear,
God who reigns above the earth, who gives The Word true worth,
God, Who spoke this world in place, opens hearts by His Grace,
And with that Grace He will impart, Eternal Truth into man’s heart.
A Book, that many seldom read, has the Truth that all men need,
While others never even heard, the Eternal Truths in God’s Word;
Eternal Truths that man can trust, which were written for all of us,
Truth revealed to all the world, which all believers need to herald.
This truth’s more than knowledge of, The One who reigns above,
But what He had did for everyone, sending Christ, His Only Son,
His Truth, revealed to every nation, leads a soul to His Salvation,
When they come to Jesus Christ, that soul, receives Eternal Life.
Open The Word and you will see, Truth about our present reality,
And you will see through history, others pointing men to eternity,
How Godly men of old would tell, others about Heaven and Hell,
Knowing all are just one breath, away from Eternal Life or Death.
(Copyright ©06/2010)
The Silent Battle
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end --
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Alienation
For the first time since he was born
Her son, her rose without a thorn,
They are at variance, they who were
Always such closest friends and dear.
Another face is in his dreams
Under the sunbeams and moonbeams.
In his changed glances she discovers
Something, some chill between two lovers --
Something of fear, and oh, it hurts!
But shall not Love have its deserts
And win forgiveness, though she still
Sets her poor will against his will?
For all day long the battle calls,
And in the quiet evenfalls,
And in the night which else is dumb,
He hears the bugle and the drum.
And the wild longing in him stirs
For the fierce battle. He's not hers,
But she her hidden way will keep,
Striving against him even in sleep,
Praying against him loud and low,
'Pity me, so he may not go!'
Calling on Heaven that it conspire
Against him and his heart's desire.
God pity mothers when their sons
Grow cold, that were their little ones!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Messenger
She rose up in the early dawn,
And white and silently she moved
About the house. Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved,
And she, the mother and the wife,
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed! and her tread
Was like the footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed; the dark night came.
She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it echoed in that place,
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. 'Bring you word,'
She cried to whom she could not see,
'Word from the battle-plain to me?'
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight;
'I bring you tidings of the four,'
He said, 'who left you for the fight.'
'God bless you, friend,' she cried, 'speak on!
For I can bear it. One is gone?'
'Ay, one is gone!' he said. 'Which one?'
'Dear lady, he, your eldest son.'
A deathly pallor shot across
Her withered face; she did not weep.
She said: 'It is a grievous loss,
But God gives His belovèd sleep.
What of the living-of the three?
And when can they come back to me?'
The soldier turned away his head:
'Lady, your husband, too, is dead.'
She put her hand upon her brow;
A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
'My husband! Oh, God, help me now!'
The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
'Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side; both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell.'
She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen gray:
'Then one is left me-one alone,'
She said, 'of four who marched away.
Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!'
The soldier walked across the floor,
Paused at the window, at the door,
Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
'Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night.'
'God knows,' the man said afterward,
'The fight itself was not so hard.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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All Around
1
You are with me
And there are goodness
Victory and glory
all around.
2
I rejoice again
and again and again
at your presence
and for sacred and
mystic conversation.
The most wanderful
Forms I have
ever seen.
3
I have seen in you
what is out of sight
I have heard of you
what is out of hearing
I have grasped
what is out of grasping
It is only due to
my poem my emotion
Without which there
is vacuum.
4
I have seen the battle
battle with myself
battle with my kith and kins
battle with past Present
and future and got nothing
and lost everything.
This battle is between
mine and yours.
This battle is between
ignorance and knowledge
and a troublesome voyage.
5
Mighty most talented heros
warrior chief all present.
Fight is unavoidable.
Tacitly or expressly
You have to play your
role to declare result.
Who am I?
6
Vanishing everything
so also I.
I a vassal
and not in a
position to keep
all me dream here
in this field.
Though appear
I am not able to
answer in the exam.
Night begin night end
Day present
that I never want.
7
To commit mistake
is but common
To realise and not
to commit further
is important.
Suffice to say
One has to face
and lose many a thing
though not his.
8
Entire family entire clan
entire nation become
entangled with this battle.
What to say
Nothing is personal
Belief not hearsay.
9
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Voices in my headSHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! ! !
SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! ! !
Voices are every where in my head.
They follow me everywhere, like the black cloud that rains.
The voices in my head constantly scratch at my brain.
With in the mist of the rain.
But the living gets painful and harder every single day.
I feel ashamed to admit that i don't want to live,
I don't know how much more i can take or give.
While the voices makes me emotionally sick.
The hold they have on me is so tight and thick,
Voices of bastards who hurt me.
The asswholes that abused me.
The depression they left in my life.
As the voices I try to fight.
I battle in the day i battle in the night
I try and compose myself, let them belive that i'm fine
But happiness is non-existant in this world of mine
When i hear the voices i feel i'm going insane,
As they constantly scratch away at my brain.
All they want to do is hurt me even more.
Brining me to the shore.
They want to bring me to an end
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Let It Be Me
Sticks and stones
Battle zones
A single light bulb
On a single thread for the black
Sirens wail
History fails
Rose-colored glass
Begins to age and crack
While the politicians shadowbox
The power ring
In an endless split decision
Never solve anything
From a neighbors distant land
I heard the strain of the common man
Let it be me
(this is not a fighting song)
Let it be me
(not a wrong for a wrong)
Let it be me
If the world is night
Shine my life like a light
Well the world seems spent
And the president
Has no good idea
Of who the masses are
Well Im one of them
And Im among friends
Were trying to see beyond
The fences in our own backyards
Ive seen the kingdoms blow
Like ashes in the winds of change
But the power of truth
Is the fuel for the flame
So the darker the ages get
Theres a stronger beacon yet
Let it be me
(this is not a fighting song)
Let it be me
(not a wrong for a wrong)
Let it be me
If the world is night
Shine my life like a light
In the kind word you speak
In the turn of the cheek
When your vision stays clear
In the face of your fear
Then you see turning out a light switch
Is their only power
When we stand like spotlights
In a mighty tower
All for one and one for all
Then we sing the common call
Let it be me
(this is not a fighting song)
Let it be me
(not a wrong for a wrong)
Let it be me
If the world is night
Shine my life like a light
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Balance
Heaven to gain
Hell to shun
Battle cry has begun.
Force of light
Ranks of dark
Enemies do embark.
Hearlding victory's cry
Troops of light
Engaged for right.
Cunning darkness
Soon percieves
A weaker light to decieve.
Warriors of light
Kneel humbled before God's Throne
Now strengthened honed.
Knights of light filled with power
Emerge for the weaker light to save
Retreating darkness to his grave.
Truth, the light, the way
On Dove's wings he sent
His love unrelent.
Light wins out
Darkness still pervades
Seeking other souls to invade.
poem by Katie J. Figueroa
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Nine One One.
A cold wind blows in downtown Manhattan,
A blue sky dawn has risen and past
But this day is different, it started but won't end
It will stay in minds and souls forever.
A million tears will fall, some wiped, some not,
A wave of sorrow casts a shadow high
Beneath the dust of hell on earth
Yet in this darkest hour a light is seen.
Stare into this light, be still and listen well,
For in such chaos and such terror
This light will bring you home.
Home unto the hearts that yearn your presence.
For land and sea may alter,
Paths may cross or even disappear,
Lives may lose the final battle bravely fought.
But the light stays eternal. Believe in the light.
poem by Dave James
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The Sisters' Tragedy
A.D. 1670
AGLÄE, a widow.
MURIEL, her unmarried sister.
It happened once, in that brave land that lies
For half the twelvemonth wrapt in sombre skies,
Two sisters loved one man. He being dead,
Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed,
And all the passion that through heavy years
Had masked in smiles unmasked itself in tears.
No purer love may mortals know than this,
The hidden love that guards another's bliss.
High in a turret's westward-facing room,
Whose painted window held the sunset's bloom,
The two together grieving, each to each
Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech.
Both were young, in life's rich summer yet;
And one was dark, with tints of violet
In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she
Who rose--a second daybreak--from the sea,
Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place,
Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face.
She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair
No wreath had worn, nor widow's weed might wear,
And told her blameless love, and knew no shame--
Her holy love that, like a vestal flame
Beside the body of some queen
Within a guarded crypt, had burned unseen
From weary year to year. And she who heard
Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word,
But, drawing closer, on the troubled brow
Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow!
MURIEL.
Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache,
Thou shouldst be dumb, yet needs must speak, or break.
The world is empty now that he is gone.
AGLÄE.
Ay, sweetheart!
MURIEL.
None was like him, no, not one.
From other men he stood apart, alone
In honor spotless as unfallen snow.
Nothing all evil was it his to know;
His charity still found some germ, some spark
Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark.
He read men's souls; the lowly and the high
Moved on the self-same level in his eye.
Gracious to all, to none subservient,
Without offence he spake the word he meant--
His word no trick of tact or courtly art,
But the white flowering of the noble heart.
Careless he was of much the world counts gain,
Careless of self, too simple to be vain,
Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake
He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake.
I saw--how could I help but love? And you--
AGLÄE.
At this perfection did I worship too . . .
'T was this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say!
I meant it not, my wits are gone astray,
With all that is and has been. No, I lie--
Had he been less perfection, happier I!
MURIEL.
Strange words and wild! 'T is the distracted mind
Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find.
AGLÄE.
Yet 't were as plain as writing on a scroll
had you but eyes to read within my soul.--
How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood,
Poison's the healthful currents of the blood
With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone!
I think, in truth, 't were better to make moan,
And so be done with it. This many a year,
Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer,
Pierced through with sorrow!
Then the widowed one
With sorrowfullest eyes beneath the sun,
Faltered, irresolute, and bending low
Her head, half whispered,
Dear, how could you know?
What masks are faces!--yours, unread by me
These seven long summers; mine, so placidly
Shielding my woe! No tremble of the lip,
No cheek's quick pallor let our secret slip!
Mere players we, and she that played the queen,
Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean!
How shall I say it, how find words to tell
What thing it was for me made earth a hell
That else had been my heaven! 'T would blanch your cheek
Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak,
Since like two souls at compt we seem to stand,
Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand,
But look not at me! Noble 't was, and meet,
To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet
To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride
And that white honor for which earls have died.
You were not all unhappy, loving so!
I with a difference wore my weight of woe.
My lord was he. It was my cruel lot,
My hell, to love him--for he loved me not!
Then came a silence. Suddenly like death
The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath--
A flash of light whereby they both were slain,
She that was loved and she that loved in vain!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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The Star of Australasia
We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime;
Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time.
From grander clouds in our `peaceful skies' than ever were there before
I tell you the Star of the South shall rise -- in the lurid clouds of war.
It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase;
For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.
There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong,
And man will fight on the battle-field
while passion and pride are strong --
So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours,
And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours.
. . . . .
There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school
To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool,
Who'll stick to their guns when the mountains quake
to the tread of a mighty war,
And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before;
When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack
till the furthest hills vibrate,
And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.
. . . . .
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride
Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side,
Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured hells
that batter a coastal town,
Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down.
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day,
Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away --
Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun,
And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, --
As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white,
And pray to God in her darkened home for the `men in the fort to-night'.
. . . . .
But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide,
'Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men
in that glorious race to ride
And strike for all that is true and strong,
for all that is grand and brave,
And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his `wings', and shut his angels out,
And steel his heart for the end of things,
who'd ride with a stockman scout,
When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning distance hums,
And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack
like stockwhip amongst the gums --
And the `straight' is reached and the field is `gapped'
and the hoof-torn sward grows red
With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead;
And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes,
with the spirit and with the shades
Of the world-wide rebel dead who'll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.
. . . . .
All creeds and trades will have soldiers there --
give every class its due --
And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo.
They'll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold,
For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old;
And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed,
For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride;
The soul of the world they will feel and see
in the chase and the grim retreat --
They'll know the glory of victory -- and the grandeur of defeat.
The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done
With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun.
And many a rickety son of a gun, on the tides of the future tossed,
Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost,
Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk
the facts that are hard to explain,
As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again --
How `this was our centre, and this a redoubt,
and that was a scrub in the rear,
And this was the point where the guards held out,
and the enemy's lines were here.'
. . . . .
They'll tell the tales of the nights before
and the tales of the ship and fort
Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport,
Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright
at the tales of our chivalry,
And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be --
When the children run to the doors and cry:
`Oh, mother, the troops are come!'
And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum.
They'll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last,
When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past.
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend's clutch,
no matter how low or mean,
Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch
of the man that he might have been.
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame,
Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman's shame,
Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend's expense,
Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.
And this you learn from the libelled past,
though its methods were somewhat rude --
A nation's born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed.
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife,
and the crimes of the peace we boast,
And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes uppermost.
The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime
Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town,
And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry -- upside down.
'Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong,
The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long.
And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease,
Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.
poem by Henry Lawson
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I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night (Villanelle)
I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night
burning, aflame before the end of day
bravely carrying on before the dying of light
raging in war busy with a almost endless fight
with no chance to ever again dance and play.
I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night
trying their utmost to do what’s right
challenging a outnumbering foe they
bravely carrying on before the dying of light
looking at enemy warplanes in their flight,
seeing bombs dropping down on their way.
I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night
seeing with blinded eyes far past sight
another world, a glassy sea and its bay
bravely carrying on before the dying of light
looking at a heaven endlessly bright,
cursed but before finality, on their knees to pray
and I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night
bravely carrying on before the dying of light.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Coronation Ode
O Thou enfolded in grief,
Man, with thy mantle of scorn!
Arise and warn!
Unloved prophet of ill
Who sittest clothed in thy grief,
In thy pride of unbelief,
In thy silence of love forsworn!
Speak thy word to the world;
Let it be as a sword to thy will;
Let it be as a spear that is hurled,
A banner of wrath unfurled,
A garment rent and torn.
Speak. They shall listen to thee,
A single voice at their feast.
To the last and least,
They shall hear what they loathe to hear.
In the day of their Jubilee,
Of their coronation feast,
With the wine at their insolent lips,
Though they lend no ear
And their shoutings ring
From the decks of a thousand ships
Acclaiming their new--crowned king
With a coronation cheer,
They shall hear.
Speak, in their jubilant hour,
In the midst of their might and mirth.
Be thy theme the Earth,
The ancient tale of the lands of fame,
Empires of earlier birth,
Which held the world in their lust of power
As their own for dower
And abused their trust.
Make thy theme of the wrath that came,
The smoke that rose, the devouring flame,
The day of glory, the night of shame
And the end of dust.
O thou enrobed in thy tears!
Thou hast heard the children sing,
The children that pass in the street,
The innocent ones with their chauntings proud,
The rhyme of their marching feet.
How their voices sting!
What is the word they say
In their play,
The hymn their young lips fashion?
They have marched through the crowded ways
With flags and glory and shoutings loud
While the sun has looked down ablaze,
Amazed at their joyous passion.
Each one carries a sword,
A wooden sword in his hand,
With ribbon and belt and cord,
And a gun on his shoulder glorious,
Proud each one as a lord.
``Soldiers,'' they shout. ``We are soldiers come
From a battle--field. For, hark, the drum!
From a field of fight victorious.''
``Soldiers! Soldiers! Soldiers!'' Weary am I
Of that word forlorn,
Of the king's command,
Of the children's insolent cry,
A nation's cry whom the nations scorn
For its childish pride.
Better were these unborn!
England! Where is she? Where?
Land of the fortunate free
Which hath ceased to be?
What hath she done with her fame?
The nations that envied her
Turned to her in their care,
Sought her light upon land and sea,
Called as once on her ancient name,
The name of her liberty.
But her ears were shut to their prayer;
Her place was a sepulchre,
She had ceased in her strength to be,
She was no more free.
She fell as a star from its place,
As a bird from its path in the sky,
As a spring run dry,
A fruit in its rottenness,
As a drunken woman prone on her face
While the world went by,
And she knew not her own disgrace.
O thou, who hast seen her fall,
Who hast witnessed her agony,
Who hast looked on the face of the dead!
Lift up thy voice in the night and cry
``The harvest is harvested.
As these shall have made their bed,
So let them lie!''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Song of Australia
The centuries found me to nations unknown –
My people have crowned me and made me a throne;
My royal regalia is love, truth, and light –
A girl called Australia – I've come to my right.
Though no fields of conquest grew red at my birth,
My dead were the noblest and bravest on earth;
Their strong sons are worthy to stand with the best –
My brave Overlanders ride west of the west.
My cities are seeking the clean and the right;
My Statesmen are speaking in London to-night;
The voice of my Bushmen is heard oversea;
My army and navy are coming to me.
By all my grim headlands my flag is unfurled,
My artists and singers are charming the world;
The White world shall know its young outpost with pride;
The fame of my poets goes ever more wide.
By old tow'r and steeple of nation grown grey
The name of my people is spreading to-day;
Through all the old nations my learners go forth;
My youthful inventors are startling the north.
In spite of all Asia, and safe from her yet,
Through wide Australasia my standards I'll set;
A grand world and bright world to rise in an hour –
The Wings of the White world, the Balance of Power.
Through storm, or serenely – whate'er I go through –
God grant I be queenly! God grant I be true!
To suffer in silence, and strike at a sign,
Till all the fair islands of these seas are mine.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Devastated
I can hear the beats of drums afar
The voices of war so loud
without out the melody of a guitar
As dust of battle redden the cloud
A fight that will leave behind only scars
Cos the warriors are not at par
It is not a children’s blazer
It is a fight like the war of the tsar
Only the ground will bear the rot
As the crushing sun and the dreadful night
Brings the pain of lost ones gone
For only the dead have seen the end of war
poem by Jesuroboowie Gift Imafidon
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The Battle of Life
Up! and arm for life's struggle,
We shall conquer in the fight,
If we arm us for the battle
With the weapons Truth and Right;
Though the world's arrayed against us,
We will shrink not from the strife,
For invincible is duty
On the battlefield of life.
In the vanguard of the battle
Foremost comes our foeman Sin,
Like a giant in his prowess,
With an aspect stern and grim.
But, though mighty in his power
We'll preserve a dauntless air,
And we'll fight this dreaded foeman
'Neath the sturdy shield of prayer.
Next is Poverty approaching,
Weapons sure and sharp she wears,
And she's backed by thronging thousands -
By a countless host of cares.
Still, this terrible invader
We'll repel with robust health,
And with energy and labour
Soon we'll win the ally Wealth.
Every step is fraught with struggle,
Cares full armed our path oppose;
Hopes are falling fast around us;
Wounded are we, too, by woes.
Yet our courage must not falter,
We must fight Care hand to hand;
Other hopes will soon support us
If we firmly take our stand.
In the sorried ranks of batte,
With the flag of Right unfurled,
Let our well-tried virtues make us
Victors ever in the world.
Noble to the things we fight for!
Glorious be the deeds we do!
Foeman to the false and evil,
Champions of the good and true!
Fight we as God's soldiers bravely,
Let us conquor by his might;
His Almighty arms shall aid us
Ever in the cause of right,
Fight on to life's last moments,
Faith at last shall conquer death:
Dying - still we'll shout in triumph,
'Victory' with our last drawn breath.
Onward, then, to dare the struggle,
Though we fall upon the field;
Better be struck down in battle,
Than like cowards tamely yield.
Shrink not from the stern encounter,
Duty ever strength supplies;
And from every fall we meet with,
Anteus-like, we'll stronger rise.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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Fighter / Thief In The Night
My eyes may see the coming King in all His majesty
In company all dressed in white
But meanwhile here at the world's dark end
The dragon draws the iron curtain round against the Light
And souls grow weary in this war of Love
And seek their solace strolling down sweet civilian ways
But meanwhile back at the world's dark end
The nations see no future waiting for the serpent to strike
Where have all the Christian soldiers gone
Where is the resistance, will no-one be strong
When will we stand up tall and straight
Rise up and storm the gate
How can we fail to get excited
The battle is ours why don't we fight it
Battalions of darkness rise above me
But God put a fighter in me, put a fighter in me
We will sing songs of victory
We will arise and set men free
We will applaud Your Majesty
We will proclaim Your Kingdom come
We will announce the battle done
We will lift up the Righteous One
I could talk for hours but you wouldn't hear a word
Your own opinions make you blind
There will come a morning when the sand has all run out
And there will be no time to change your mind
Like a thief in the night He will come
There will be nowhere left you can run
You can fall with the night, or you can rise
With the Sun
Like a thief in the night He will come
There will be nowhere left you can run
You can fall with the night, or you can rise
With the Sun
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Jane Addams at the Hague
I. SPEAK NOW FOR PEACE
Lady of Light, and our best woman, and queen,
Stand now for peace, (though anger breaks your heart),
Though naught but smoke and flame and drowning is seen.
Lady of Light, speak, though you speak alone,
Though your voice may seem as a dove's in this howling flood,
It is heard to-night by every senate and throne.
Though the widening battle of millions and millions of men
Threatens to-night to sweep the whole of the earth,
Back of the smoke is the promise of kindness again.
II. TOLSTOI IS PLOWING YET
Tolstoi is plowing yet. When the smoke-clouds break,
High in the sky shines a field as wide as the world.
There he toils for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake.
Ah, he is taller than clouds of the little earth.
Only the congress of planets is over him,
And the arching path where new sweet stars have birth.
Wearing his peasant dress, his head bent low,
Tolstoi, that angel of Peace, is plowing yet;
Forward, across the field, his horses go.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Bang The Drum Slowly
(Emmylou Harris/Guy Clark)
I meant to ask you how to fix that car
I always meant to ask you about the war
And what you saw across a bridge too far
Did it leave a scar
Or how you navigated wings of fire and steel
Up where heaven had no more secrets to conceal
And still you found the ground beneath your wheels
How did it feel
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
I meant to ask you how when everything seemed lost
And your fate was in a game of dice they tossed
There was still that line that you would never cross
At any cost
I meant to ask you how you lived what you believed
With nothing but your heart up your sleeve
And if you ever really were deceived
By the likes of me
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
Gone now is the day and gone the sun
There is peace tonight all over Arlington
But the songs of my life will still be sung
By the light of the moon you hung
I meant to ask you how to plow that field
I meant to bring you water from the well
And be the one beside you when you fell
Could you tell
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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