St. Ignatius Loyola At The Chapel Of Our Lady Of Montserrat
’Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods
In a lonely, sacred fane—
The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,
So famous throughout all Spain;
For countless were the pilgrim hosts
Who knelt at that sacred shrine
With aching hearts, that came to seek
Relief and grace divine.
Pure as the light of the evening star
Shines the lamp’s pale, solemn ray,
That burns through midnight’s hush and gloom,
As well as the glare of day,
Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God,
Resigning each vain delight,
Each earthly lure, to burn and shine
With pure love in His sight.
Softly the gentle radiance falls
On a mail-clad warrior there,
Who humbly bows his stately head
In silent, earnest prayer;
It flashes back from his corslet bright,
From each shining steel clad hand,
And the brow which tells that he was born
To pomp and high command.
Say, who is he, that vigil keeps,
Like the warrior knights of old,
Through the long lone hours of the silent night,
Ere they donned their spurs of gold?
A soldier brave and proud is he,
And bears a noble name,
Since Pampeluna’s glorious day
Won Loyola his fame.
What doth he at this lowly shrine?
What mean those prayers and sighs,
The tearful mist that dims the light
Of his flashing, eagle eyes?
They tell of life’s vain pomps and pride
Esteemed as worthless dross,
For the dauntless soldier has become
The soldier of the Cross.
That sword, that once like lightning swept
Through ranks of foes hard pressed,
Now hangs beside Our Lady’s shrine,
Henceforth in peace to rest,—
And soon the penitent’s rough, dark robe,
His girdle and cowl of gloom,
Will replace the soldier’s armor bright,
And his lofty, waving plume.
Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!
A noble choice is thine!
What are the laurels of earth beside
The joys of bliss divine?
And thou hast won, though seeking not,
The saint’s undying fame—
Christ’s Holy Church will evermore
Revere and bless thy name!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Brave Little Soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must fight, I must win
Im a brave little soldier
Through hell and back again
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum, pum, pum
Ye though I am marching through the valley filled with fear
My steps are sure and sturdy and my aim is straight and clear
The enemy is stalking me just waiting for the kill
Like david slewed galiath
I will claim this battle field
Im a brave little soldier
I must do what I can
Im a brave little soldier
And I must take a stand
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Marching, marching onward
Searching out the light of truth
I did not start the war
But its a battle I cant lose
Faith will be my armor
And love my sword and shield
I must defeat the enemy
I will, I will, I will
A brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
A brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Brave, little soldier
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Irish Soldier
The Irish soldier, cast for fight,
Stood to his arms at dead of night,
Watching the east, until its ray
To the battle--field should show his way;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though they call you slave,
And though you but help a bandit hand
Uncheck'd to kill in your native land.
The soldier thought on his chance of doom--
How the trampled sod might be his tomb--
How, in evening's dusk, his sightless stare
To the small pale stars might upward glare;--
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though you think of the grave--
Though it yawn so near you, black and chill,
Honor and courage man you still.
And o'er his solemn brow he made
The Christian sign, and humbly said--
``Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall;
And for mercy, O Lord, on you I call!''--
Irish soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight, although you crave
The prayers of the saints your own to aid,
And the sign of the cross on your brow have made.
The morning broke--the bugle blew--
The voice of command the soldier knew,
And stern and straight in the van he stood,
And shouting, he rush'd to the work of blood;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
Thousands lay round you, crimson'd and cold--
But over their bodies you still fought on,
Till down you sank as the day was won.
And the Irish soldier now hath come,
Worn, and wounded, and crippled, home,
The hated, and slander'd, and scorn'd of those
Who safely slept while he faced their foes;--
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
In your native land you now are told
'Twas traitor--blood on that field you lost,
For you call'd on the saints, and your brow you cross'd!
poem by John Banim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mother’s Cry of Late
Where for art thou, soldier?
Out East? West? –
And when? –
What part your rabid history?
And why? –
What wrought your destiny? –
For whom
You’d wreak your enmity –
I crave your fate to pen!
What comprehension of the
Order? –
‘Listen up! you men!
Raze to ground the taken land!
See they die and e’er you’ll stand, for
Death is but a grain of sand –
The mighty triumph, medal grand!
Now go you well!
Amen! ’
What sight upon the bloody lie
Of war? – your doubtful fate.
‘Where for art thou, soldier? ’ –
Your mother’s cry of late.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier soldier
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Our Soldier Cousin
Glide, river, gently to the sea;
Sing dirges low and tender;
Bear partings oft breathed near to thee,
By patriot truth-defenders;
Waft soothing murmurs from thy shores,
To hearts so fondly loving;
One sigh for us, who, more and more,
Grieve for a soldier cousin.
Glow, campfires, with your glittering gleam,
On hill, in covert valley,
While dim the flickering taper beams,
Upon his pallet lowly.
Dread fever dried his young life's fount,
Yet reason came at even;
He spoke of home, then upward mounts
His soul - that soldier cousin's.
'Twas this he said - to them now dear,
These words, so so fitly spoken -
'Tell father, mother, sister, there,
My hold on life's most broken;
Yes, dear ones, only brother lone,
Weep not - but live for Heaven;
I'm happy now - meet me at home'.
Thus died our soldier cousin.
Ah! noble cousin, on that morn,
When 'cross the Rappahannock,
So noiseless fled those warrior forms,
Hid by thy brave band's banner,
Did'st think so soon thy weary feet,
This river'd cross to Heaven.
While angels covered thy retreat,
Safe over - soldier cousin?
To think we were at home with thee,
But six short months agone,
And as thy sister pressed the keys,
We all joined in the song!
But now thou'rt gone! - o'er ruined joys,
Like call of the Muezzin,
Echo brings back our manly voice,
Our noble soldier cousin.
Now, as the lone ones in thy home,
Surround the hearth at even,
And calmly close the sacred tome,
And raise the song to Heaven,
They pause and sigh, and tear drops fall,
For no more thou art coming,
To kneel in prayer with the loved all,
At home - dear soldier cousin.
Yet though they miss thee through long hours,
Faith fills the vacant chair,
Points upward to the heavenly bowers,
And sweetly saith 'He's there!'
Ah, yes, 'he's there!' His Christian heart
Would heed his country's bidding;
He's done the patriot hero's part -
God loves our soldier cousin!
There's cheer in this, too, mourning ones,
We know our Christian cousin,
When ranked with freedom's noble sons,
Was bannered sure for Heaven.
Then weep no more; press back the tears,
Save for the fond hearts riven,
Who mourns their dead mid hope and fear,
But 'at home' is our soldier cousin.
The Girl Martyr
Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate;
His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state;
But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield—
Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field—
None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom
That hover’d o’er his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.
While still he mused the air was rent with loud and deaf’ning cry,
And angry frown and darker smile proclaimed the victim nigh.
No traitor to his native land, no outlaw fierce was there,
’Twas but a young and gentle girl, as opening rose bud fair,
Who stood alone among those men, so dark and full of guile,
And yet her cheek lost not its bloom, her lips their gentle smile.
At length he spoke, that ruthless chief, in tones both stern and dread:
“Girl! listen! mark me well, or else thy blood be on thy head!
Thou art accused of worshipping Jesus the Nazarene—
Of scorning Rome’s high, mighty Gods,—speak, say if this has been?
I fain would spare thee, for thy name among our own ranks high;
Thine age, thy sex, my pity move, I would not see thee die!
”If thou hast dared at foreign shrine to rashly bend the knee,
Recant thine errors, and thy guilt cancelled at once shall be.“
Undaunted spoke she, ”In His steps unworthy have I trod,
And spurned the idols vain of Rome for Him, the Christian’s God.
I fear not death, however dread the ghastly shape he wear,
He whom I serve will give me strength thy torments all to bear.“
Darker than e’en the darkest cloud became her judge’s brow,
And stern the threats he thundered forth. ”What dost thou dare avow?
Retract thy words, or, by the Gods! I swear that thou shall die!“
Unmoved she met his angry frown—his fierce and flashing eye:
”Nay, I have spoken—hasten now, fulfil thy direful task,
The martyr’s bright and glorious crown is the sole boon I ask.“
Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge’s breast,
For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed;
And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow
He’d loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now.
With iron might he’d nerved himself to say the words of fate,
To doom to death the girl he sought—but sought in vain—to hate.
Yet now, e’en in the final hour, ’spite of his creed of crime,
His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time.
”Irene! girl!“ he wildly prayed, ”brave not Rome’s fearful power!
Mad as thou art, she’ll pardon thee, e’en in the eleventh hour;
Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire,
And outraged as thy rulers are, ’twill calm their lawful ire!“
”Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we’ve so often knelt,
Joined in the same pure orisons—the same emotion felt;
Forsake a creed whose very God with scorn was crucified—,
Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!“
He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw
Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth might know;
But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside:
”I’ve said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!“
He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart;
Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim’s dauntless heart.
She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven,
And in that breath her spotless soul had passed from earth to heaven.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Bards, To The Soldiers Of Caractacus
VALIANT sons of freedom's land,
Ardent, firm, devoted band,
Rise, at honor's thrilling call:
Warriors, arm! shall Britain fall?
Rush, battle-steed,
Bleed, soldiers! bleed,
For Britain's throne, for glory's meed!
Heroes! to the combat fly,
Proud to struggle, blest to die;
Go! should death your efforts crown,
Mount the pinions of renown;
Go! tell our sires,
Their daring fires,
Glow in our lofty souls, till life expires!
Tell them, ne'er shall Britain yield,
Whilst a hand the sword can wield!
Tell them, we the strife maintain,
Tell them, we defy the chain!
In heart the same,
In patriot-flame
We emulate their brightest fame!
Shades of sainted chiefs! be near,
Frown on Albion's lifted spear!
Point the falchion, guide the car,
Flaming through the ranks of war!
Rise on the field,
With sword and shield,
To British eyes in forms of light reveal'd!
Spark of freedom, blaze on high!
Wilt thou quiver? shalt thou die?
Never, never! holy fire!
Mount, irradiate! beam, aspire!
Our foes consume,
Our swords illume,
And chase the dark horizon's gloom!
Shall the Roman arms invade
Mona's dark and hallow'd shade?
By the dread, mysterious wand,
Waving in the Druid's hand;
By ev'ry rite,
Of Mona's night,
Arm, warriors! arm, in sacred cause unite!
Honor! while thy bands disdain,
Slav'ry's dark, debasing chain;
Britain! while thy sons are free,
Dauntless, faithful, firm, for thee;
Mona! while at thy command,
Ardent, bold, sublime, they stand;
Proud foes in vain,
Prepare the chain,
For Albion unsubdu'd shall reign!
Lo! we see a flame divine
Blaze o'er Mona's awful shrine;
Lo! we hear a voice proclaim,
'Albion, thine, immortal fame!'
Arise, ye brave,
To bleed, to save,
Tho' proud in pomp, yon Roman eagles wave!
Cæsar, come! in ten-fold mail,
Will thine arms like ours avail?
Cæsar! let thy falchions blaze,
Will they dim fair Freedom's rays?
Cæsar! boast thy wide control,
Canst thou chain th' aspiring soul?
What steel can bind,
The soaring mind,
Free as the light, the wave, the wind?
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Effigies
Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.
A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance–
Chief! were not these things thine?
A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council-board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour'd;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;–
Surely these things were all thine own,–
So hadst thou thy reward.
Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest
By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale?–Oh! gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?
He woo'd a bright and burning star–
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast-receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang–but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?
Thy silent and secluded hours
Thro' many a lonely day,
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirit far away;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim–
These fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine!–long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given–
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Soldier's Ghost
I bled for you - would you for me?
I blessed a skin in blazing fuel
Then took a bullet in a duel of
‘He or I to Die.'
I often question ‘Why? '
Do you?
My country was my life to give -
Would you for country cease to live?
Sinking in a mire of death,
You have no choice -
So while you're still alive,
Rejoice!
I cried in failure - did you care?
And as I waned, were you aware of
What I did -?
Fighting for my country while you hid
Behind your comfort back at home?
Still relaxed?
My wife and child are fading at the tomb.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier soldier soldier war
Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier Soldier
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war
war war war war war war war war war war war war
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coeur De Lion At The Bier Of His Father
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier,
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Through dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply-furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show,-
-Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely clos'd in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;
And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile,
As by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear,
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it rais'd;-
For his father lay before him low,
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast,
-But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress'd!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain-
-Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.
He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie,
A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd-and kiss'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.
'Oh, father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again,
I weep-behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!
Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
'Speak to me! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me!-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
-Hush'd, hush'd-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?-woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
'Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive;-
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say-'forgive!'
'Thou wert the noblest king,
On royal throne e'er seen;
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are prov'd
In war, the bravest heart-
-Oh! ever the renown'd and lov'd
Thou wert-and there thou art!
'Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!-
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climb'd thy parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,-
-How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Romance of Dunois
It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine:
'And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' was still the Soldier’s prayer;
'That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.'
His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,
And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,
'Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.'
They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege–Lord said,
'The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid.-—
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.'
And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;
And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel there
Cried, 'Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!'
poem by Sir Walter Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Dirge For McPherson
Arms reversed and banners creped -
Muffled drums;
Snowy horses sable-draped -
McPherson comes.
But, tell us, shall we know him more,
Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?
Brave the sword upon the pall -
A gleam in gloom;
So a bright name lighteth all
McPherson's doom.
Bear him through the chapel-door -
Let priest in stole
Pace before the warrior
Who led. Bell -toll!
Lay him down within the nave,
The lesson read -
Man is noble, man is brave,
But man's - a weed.
Take him up again and wend
Graveward, nor weep:
There's a trumpet that shall rend
This Soldier's sleep.
Pass the ropes the coffin round,
And let descend;
Prayer and volley - let it sound
McPherson's end.
True fame is his, for life is o'er -
Sarpedon of the mighty war.
poem by Herman Melville
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Pilgrim
Vain folly of another age,
This wandering over earth,
To find the peace by some dark sin
Banish'd our household hearth.
On Lebanon the dark green pines
Wave over sacred ground,
And Carmel's consecrated rose
Springs from a hallow'd mound.
Glorious the truth they testify,
And blessed is their name;
But even in such a sacred spot,
Are sin and woe the same.
O pilgrim! with each toilsome step,
Vain every weary day;
There is no charm in soil or shrine,
To wash thy guilt away.
Return, with prayer and tear, return
To those who weep at home;
To dry their tears will more avail,
Than o'er a world to roam.
There's hope for one who leaves with shame,
The guilt that lured before;
Remember, He who said, 'Repent,'
Said also, 'Sin no more.'
Return, and in thy daily round
Of duty and of love,
Thou best wilt find that patient faith
Which lifts the soul above.
In ev'ry innocent prayer, each child
Lisps at his father's knee: -
If thine has been to teach that prayer,
There will be hope for thee.
There is a small white church, that stands
Beside thy father's grave,
There kneel and pour those earnest prayers,
That sanctify and save.
Around thee draw thine own home-ties,
And, with a chasten'd mind,
In meek well-doing seek that peace,
No wandering will find.
In charity and penitence,
Thy sin will be forgiven: -
Pilgrim, the heart is the true shrine,
Whence prayers ascend to Heaven.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What You Find
There is discipline in A Soldier
you can see it when he walks,
There is honor in A Soldier
you hear it when he talks.
There is courage in A Soldier
you can see it in his eyes,
There is loyalty in A Soldier
that he will not compromise.
There is something in A Soldier
that makes him stand apart,
There is strength in A Soldier
that beats from his heart.
A Soldier isn't a title any man
can be hired to do,
A Soldier is the soul of that man
buried deep inside of you.
A Soldier's job isn't finished after
an 8 hour day or a 40 hour week,
A Soldier is always A Soldier
even while he sleeps.
A Soldier serves his country first
and his life is left behind,
A Soldier has to sacrifice what
comes first in a civilian's mind.
If you are civilian -
I am saying this to you.....
next time you see A Soldier
remember what they do.
A Soldier is the reason our land
is 'Home of the free',
A Soldier is the one that is brave
protecting you and me.
If you are A Soldier -
I am saying this to you.....
Thank God for EVERY SOLDIER
Thank God for what YOU do!
TY bohls
Dear Soldier
Dear brave soldier, you who stand so tall, towering over enemies, then you see them fall, You who have fought so long and hard and you who will stand and fight, leaving your only home for our sacred rights. You who lived in sanctity and died as a martyr, and you who were born good will be in our hearts forever. For you where the greatest soldier that an army could have and you will be remembered as a warrior through the years that will pass.
poem by Rochelle Cathell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Korner And His Sister
Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest,
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar keepest;
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!
Rest, bard! rest, soldier! by the father's hand
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand,
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.
The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial-rite,
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee.
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token,
That Lyre and Sword were broken.
Thou hast a hero's tomb: a lowlier bed
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair, young head
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave
She pined to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others; but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She loved thee! lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:–What hath she?
Her own blest place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky.
Ye were but two and when that spirit pass'd,
Wo to the one, the last!
Wo, yet not long! She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,
It answer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perish'd: be the Flower deplor'd
Here with the Lyre and Sword!
Have ye not met ere now? so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Soldier- Dedicated to Nicholas Shelton
There is discipline in A Soldier you can see it when he walks,
There is honor in A Soldier you hear it when he talks.
There is courage in A Soldier you can see it in his eyes,
There is loyalty in A Soldier that he will not compromise.
There is something in A Soldier that makes him stand apart,
There is strength in A Soldier that beats from his heart.
A Soldier isn't a title any man can be hired to do,
A Soldier is the soul of that man buried deep inside of you.
A Soldier's job isn't finished after an 8 hour day or a 40 hour week,
A Soldier is always A Soldier even while he sleeps.
A Soldier serves his country first and his life is left behind,
A Soldier has to sacrifice what comes first in a civilian's mind.
If you are civilian - I am saying this to you..... next time you see A Soldier remember what they do.
A Soldier is the reason our land is 'Home of the free',
A Soldier is the one that is brave protecting you and me.
If you are A Soldier - I am saying this to you.....
Thank God for EVERY SOLDIER Thank God for what YOU do!
I thought about you Mr. Shelton, I figured this is the least I could do to thank you my friend.
poem by Caleb Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dedication : To The Memory Of Cecil Spring-Rice
STEADFAST as any soldier of the line
He served his England, with the imminent death
Poised at his heart. Nor could the world divine
The constant peril of each burdened breath.
England, and the honour of England, he still served
Walking the strict path, with the old high pride
Of those invincible knights who never swerved
One hair's breadth from the way until they died.
Quietness he loved, and books, and the grave beauty
Of England's Helicon, whose eternal light
Shines like a lantern on that road of duty,
Discerned by few in this chaotic night;
And his own pen, foretelling his release,
Told us that he foreknew ' the end was peace.'
II.
Soldier of England, he shall live unsleeping
Among his friends, with the old proud flag above;
For even to-day her honour is in his keeping,
He has joined the hosts that guard her with their love.
They shine like stars, unnumbered happy legions,
In that high realm where all our darkness dies.
He moves with honour, in those loftier regions,
Above this ' world of passion and of lies ';
For so he called it, keeping his own pure passion
A silent flame before the true and good;
Not fawning on the throng in this world's fashion
To come and see what all might see who would.
Soldier of England, perfect, gentle knight,
The soul of Sidney welcomes you to-night.
poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Four Wishes
“Father!” a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow
“On the world wide I must go forth—then bless me, bless me, now!
And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won—
What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?”
Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high,
The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye:
“My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name,
Then, let thy guiding star through life—thy chief pursuit—be fame!”
“’Tis well! thou’st chosen, father, well—it is a glorious part!”
And the youth’s glance told the wish chimed well with that brave ardent heart.
“Now, brother, thou’lt have none to share thy sports till I return,—
Say, what shall be the glitt’ring prize that I afar must earn?”
“The world,” said the laughing boy, “on heroes poor looks cold,
If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold.”
“Perchance thou’rt right!” and now he turned to his sister young and fair,
Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.
“’Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart’s wish to me,
If I’ve the power, ’twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee.”
The maiden blushed and whispring low, “I prize not wealth or pride,
But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride.”
The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt’ring voice,
He asked of her, the best beloved, “Mother, what is thy choice?”
“My son! my son!” she softly said, “hear my wish ere we part—
Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!”
* * * * *
The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more
The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore;
The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair
Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.
His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father’s feet,
And sadly said, “’Tis all I have—is it an off’ring meet?
In battle’s front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped,
Want, weariness and pain I’ve borne, and yet no fame I’ve reaped.
“Brother, thou told’st me to return with treasures like a king;
This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I bring.
Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair,—
I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!
“Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine
If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain but thine?
Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we met—
Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, ’tis true and stainless yet!
“No aim has ever ruled it that thou might’st not calmly see—
Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I’d shrink to bare to thee!”
“Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art thou now
Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined thy brow!
“And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho’ dimmed its brightness be,
Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!”
With all a mother’s yearning love, she strained him to her heart,
And in that fond embrace he felt her’s was “the better part.”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Υμνος αυμνος
O Thou whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine;
Which from that precinct once conveyed,
To be to outer day displayed,
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank and void of empty mind,
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again!
O Thou that in our bosom’s shrine
Dost dwell, unknown because divine!
I thought to speak, I thought to say,
‘The light is here,’ ‘behold the way,’
‘The voice was thus,’ and ‘thus the word,’
And ‘thus I saw,’ and ‘that I heard,’—
But from the lips that half essayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.
O Thou, in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as I must say, divine!
I will not frame one thought of what
Thou mayest either be or not.
I will not prate of ‘thus’ and ‘so,’
And be profane with ‘yes’ and ‘no,’
Enough that in our soul and heart
Thou, whatso’er Thou may’st be, art.
Unseen, secure in that high shrine
Acknowledged present and divine,
I will not ask some upper air,
Some future day to place Thee there;
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men
And women saw Thee thus and then:
Thy name was such, and there or here
To him or her Thou didst appear.
Do only Thou in that dim shrine,
Unknown or known, remain, divine;
There, or if not, at least in eyes
That scan the fact that round them lies,
The hand to sway, the judgment guide,
In sight and sense Thyself divide:
Be Thou but there,—in soul and heart,
I will not ask to feel Thou art.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Final Reckoning
’Twas a wild and stormy sunset, changing tints of lurid red
Flooded mountain top and valley and the low clouds overhead;
And the rays streamed through the windows of a building stately, high,
Whose wealthy, high-born master had lain him down to die.
Many friends were thronging round him, breathing aching, heavy sighs—
Men with pale and awe-struck faces, women, too, with weeping eyes,
Watching breathless, silent, grieving him whose sands were nearly run,
When, with sudden start, he muttered: “God! how much I’ve left undone!”
Then out spoke an aged listener, with broad brow and locks of snow,
“Patriot, faithful to thy country and her welfare, say not so,
For the long years thou hast served her thou hast only honor won.”
But, from side to side still tossing, still he muttered: “Much undone!”
Then the wife, with moan of anguish, like complaint of stricken dove,
Murmured: “Husband, truer, fonder, never blessed a woman’s love,
And a just and tender father both to daughter and to son”—
But more feebly moaned he ever: “Oh! there’s much, there’s much undone!”
Quickly, then, a proud, stern soldier questioned: “Say, will not thy name
Long descend in future story, linked with honor and with fame,
For thine arm was prompt in battle and thy laurels nobly won;
Patriot, citizen and soldier, what, then, is there left undone?”
Then the dying man upraised him; at his accents loud and clear
Into silence men lapsed quickly—women checked each sob and tear;
And he said: “To fame, home, country, all my heart, my thoughts I’ve given,
But, Oh dreamers, can you tell me what I’ve done for God—for Heaven?
“It was not for Him I battled with the sword or with the pen,
Not for His praise that I thirsted, but that of my fellow-men;
And amid the light now flooding this my life’s last setting sun,
I can see, misguided worldling! that there’s much I’ve left undone.”
Thicker, darker, fell the shadows, fainter grew his flutt’ring breath
Then a strange and solemn stillness, ’twas the awful hush of death:
Hope we that a tender Saviour, unto gentle pity won,
Judged that dying man with mercy, whatsoe’er he left undone!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!