Saxon War-Song
Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
The eagle screams - he rides on its bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the wound!
All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone -
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire
I also must perish.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Related quotes
Written In Aid Of The Leicester Lunatic Asylum.
Light ye the torch,--
The torch that hath expired;
The light with which was fired
Chamber and hall and porch:
But now the house is dark,
Its inmates rove in vain,
There shines but a bewildering spark:
Light ye the torch again!
Light ye the torch,--
It was a sacred flame,
From God in heaven it came:
All nature ye may search
To find a fire so bright,
And ye shall search in vain:
But quenched is all its glorious light:--
Light ye the torch again!
Light ye the torch,--
The ruthless winds have blown
Its tresses up and down,
Till it did scare and scorch,
Not bless: but one fell blast
Swept howling o'er the plain,
And left all darkness as it past;--
Light ye the torch again!
Light ye the torch,--
And ye shall blessed be:
Till many a bended knee
In chamber and in church
Shall serve ye: merciful,
Mercy ye shall obtain:
Your cup of glory shall be full:--
Light ye the torch again!
poem by Henry Alford
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The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mood of Depression
You dark mouth inside me,
You are strong , shape
Composed of autumn cloud,
And golden evening stillness;
In the shadows thrown
By the broken pine trees
A mountain stream turns dark in the green light;
A little town
That piously dies away into brown pictures.
Now the black horses rear
In the foggy pasture.
I think of soldiers!
Down the hill, where the dying sun lumbers,
The laughing blood plunges,
Speechless
Under the oak trees! Oh the hopeless depression
Of an army; a blazing steel helmet
Fell with a clatter from purpled foreheads.
The autumn night comes down so coolly.
With her white habit glittering like the stars
Over the broken human bodies
The convent nurse is silent
poem by Georg Trakl
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A dead world
as thy light turned to darkness
As thy world to black from blue
As thy eyes turned from bright to dull
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy hair turned blood red
As thy clothes turned to black
As thy hands, feet became clawed
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy people died with red, black
As thy city, town destroyed
As thy hunt for her started
And thy lust for blood became strong
The world died, so did I...
poem by Sesamarna Syfyre
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Cold Wind To Valhalla
And ride with us young bonny lass ---
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter --- flesh rein bite on an out-size
Unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a cold wind
To valhalla.
And join with us please --- valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to valhalla.
Break fast with the gods. night angels serve
With ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve ---
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light
The old valhalla.
Come join with us please --- valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of thors trusty
Hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
''were getting a bit short on heroes lately.
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the
Desolation of valhalla.
And join with us please --- valkyrie maidens ride
Empty-handed on the cold wind to valhalla.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Black Knight
'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness.
Thus began the King and spake:
'So from the halls
Of ancient hofburg's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break.'
Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly,
From balcony the King looked on;
In the play of spears,
Fell all the cavaliers,
Before the monarch's stalwart son.
To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable Knight.
'Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!'
'Should I speak it here,
Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I am a Prince of mighty sway!'
When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock;
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow,
Hardly rises from the shock.
Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torch-light through the high halls glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with ter the dance begin.
Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around;
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.
To the sumptuous banquet came
Every Knight and every Dame,
'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,
With mournful mind
The ancient King reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.
Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took:
'Golden wine will make you whole!
The children drank,
Gave many a courteous thank:
'O, that draught was very cool!'
Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colorless grow utterly;
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father gray,
He beholds his children die.
'Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;
Take me, too, the joyless father!
Spake the grim Guest,
From his hollow, cavernous breast;
'Roses in the spring I gather!'
poem by Johann Ludwig Uhland
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Bavarian Gentias
Not every man has gentians in his house
in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas.
Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime, torch-like, with the smoking blueness of Pluto's
gloom,
ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread blue
down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day
torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,
black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,
giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off blight, lead me then, lead the way.
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!
let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom, among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Carrying A Torch
Im carryin a torch for you
Im carryin a torch
You know how much it costs
To keep carryin a torch
Flame of love it burns so bright
That is my desire
Keep on liftin me, liftin me up
Higher and higher
Youre the keeper of the flame
And you burn so bright
Baby why dont we re-connect
Move into the light
Ive been going to and fro on this
And Im still carryin a torch
You must know how much its worth
When Im carryin a torch (alright)
Baby youre the keeper of the flame
And you burn so bright
Why, why, why, why, why, why dont we re-connect
And move on further, into the light
Ive been calling you on the phone
'cause Im carryin a torch (yeah)
I can do it all on my own
'cause Im carryin a torch
Im carryin a torch for you, baby
Im carryin a torch
You know how much its worth
Because Im carryin a torch (one more)
Im carryin a torch for you, baby
Im carryin a torch
You know how much its worth
Because Im carryin a torch.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Episode 36
WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan's son,
linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings,
Aelfhere's kinsman. His king he now saw
with heat under helmet hard oppressed.
He minded the prizes his prince had given him,
wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line,
and folk-rights that his father owned
Not long he lingered. The linden yellow,
his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: --
as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it,
who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere,
friendless exile, erst in fray
killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin
brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed,
old sword of Eotens, Onela's gift,
weeds of war of the warrior-thane,
battle-gear brave: though a brother's child
had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela.
For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept,
breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown
earlship to earn as the old sire did:
then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle,
portion huge, when he passed from life,
fared aged forth. For the first time now
with his leader-lord the liegeman young
was bidden to share the shock of battle.
Neither softened his soul, nor the sire's bequest
weakened in war. So the worm found out
when once in fight the foes had met!
Wiglaf spake, -- and his words were sage;
sad in spirit, he said to his comrades: --
"I remember the time, when mead we took,
what promise we made to this prince of ours
in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings,
for gear of combat to give him requital,
for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring
stress of this sort! Himself who chose us
from all his army to aid him now,
urged us to glory, and gave these treasures,
because he counted us keen with the spear
and hardy 'neath helm, though this hero-work
our leader hoped unhelped and alone
to finish for us, -- folk-defender
who hath got him glory greater than all men
for daring deeds! Now the day is come
that our noble master has need of the might
of warriors stout. Let us stride along
the hero to help while the heat is about him
glowing and grim! For God is my witness
I am far more fain the fire should seize
along with my lord these limbs of mine!
Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear
homeward hence, save here we essay
to fell the foe and defend the life
of the Weders' lord. I wot 'twere shame
on the law of our land if alone the king
out of Geatish warriors woe endured
and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet,
breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!"
Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain,
his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake: --
"Beowulf dearest, do all bravely,
as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst
that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise
thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds,
atheling steadfast, with all thy strength
shield thy life! I will stand to help thee."
At the words the worm came once again,
murderous monster mad with rage,
with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek,
the hated men. In heat-waves burned
that board to the boss, and the breastplate failed
to shelter at all the spear-thane young.
Yet quickly under his kinsman's shield
went eager the earl, since his own was now
all burned by the blaze. The bold king again
had mind of his glory: with might his glaive
was driven into the dragon's head, --
blow nerved by hate. But Naegling was shivered,
broken in battle was Beowulf's sword,
old and gray. 'Twas granted him not
that ever the edge of iron at all
could help him at strife: too strong was his hand,
so the tale is told, and he tried too far
with strength of stroke all swords he wielded,
though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought.
Then for the third time thought on its feud
that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon,
and rushed on the hero, where room allowed,
battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth
closed on his neck, and covered him
with waves of blood from his breast that welled.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Black Knight. (From The German Of Uhland)
'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness,
Thus began the King and spake:
So from the halls
Of ancient Hofburgh's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break.
Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly,
From balcony the King looked on;
In the play of spears,
Fell all the cavaliers,
Before the monarch's stalwart son.
To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable Knight.
Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!
Should I speak it here,
Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I am a Prince of mighty sway!
When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock.
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow,
Hardly rises from the shock.
Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torch-light through the high hall glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with her the dance begin;
Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around.
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.
To the sumptuous banquet came
Every Knight and every Dame.
'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,
With mournful mind
The ancient King reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.
Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took;
Golden wine will make you whole!
The children drank,
Gave many a courteous thank;
Oh, that draught was very cool!
Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colourless grow utterly.
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father grey,
He beholds his children die.
Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;
Take me, too, the joyless father!
Spake the grim Guest,
From his hollow, cavernous breast,
Roses in the spring I gather!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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An Alliance
This is the weird of a world-old folk,
That not till the last link breaks,
Not till the night is blackest,
The blood of Hengist wakes.
When the sun is black in heaven,
The moon as blood above,
And the earth is full of hatred,
This people tells its love.
In change, eclipse, and peril,
Under the whole world's scorn,
By blood and death and darkness
The Saxon peace is sworn;
That all our fruit be gathered,
And all our race take hands,
And the sea be a Saxon river
That runs through Saxon lands.
Lo! not in vain we bore him;
Behold it! not in vain,
Four centuries' dooms of torture
Choked in the throat of Spain,
Ere priest or tyrant triumph -
We know how well - we know -
Bone of that bone can whiten,
Blood of that blood can flow.
Deep grows the hate of kindred,
Its roots take hold on hell;
No peace or praise can heal it,
But a stranger heals it well.
Seas shall be red as sunsets,
And kings' bones float as foam,
And heaven be dark with vultures,
The night our son comes home.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sestina: Altaforte
Loquitur: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a
stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene in at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur.
"The Leopard," the device of Richard (Cúur de Lion).
I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"
VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"
poem by Ezra Pound
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Valhalla
Leading us on, to the land of eternity
Riding the cold cold winds of valhalla
The kingdom of odin is the kingdom of gods
Where only souls of the brave may rest in peace
But someone among them had the skill of deceit
And raised the hand that would open the road to hel
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Be sure that the blood will start to flow
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Valhalla
The ring has been broken and a soul must be saved
Among the bravest of men, who rides to hel
The longships are sailing and the chariots ride
And yes the anger of thor will serve you well
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Be sure that the blood will start to flow
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Valhalla
Raise your hands
Reach and valhalla will save your soul
Raise your eyes
And odin will lead us on
They say that history repeats itself
Upon the year of the seventh century
Well nobody knows, no you never can tell
So youd better run now and hide away
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Be sure that the blood will start to flow
When the winds of valhalla run cold
Valhalla
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sword Of The Tomb : A Northern Legend
'Voice of the gifted elder time!
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme!
Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose,
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes;
Voice of the buried past!
'Voice of the grave! 'tis the mighty hour,
When night with her stars and dreams hath power,
And my step hath been soundless on the snows,
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose
On the billow and the blast.'
Then the torrents of the North,
And the forest pines were still,
While a hollow chant came forth
From the dark sepulchral hill.
'There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead,
But where the day looks not the brave may tread;
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd,
But the warrior may come to the silent board
In the shadow of the night.
'There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb,
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom;
But soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!'
Then died the solemn lay,
As a trumpet's music dies,
By the night-wind borne away
Through the wild and stormy skies.
The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast,
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd,-
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old,
The dark place of visions and legends, told
By the fires of Northern pine.
The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound;
And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades,
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades,
Gave warning, with voice and sign.
But the wind strange magic knows
To call wild shape and tone
From the grey wood's tossing boughs
When night is on her throne.
The pines clos'd o'er him with deeper gloom,
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb;
The pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright
With the arrowy streams of the northern light,
But his road through dimness lay!
He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood,
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood:
Nor paus'd, till the rock where a vaulted bed
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead,
Arose on his midnight way.
Then first a moment's chill
Went shuddering through his breast,
And the steel-clad man stood still
Before that place of rest.
But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath,
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death,
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire,
With a strange and solemn light.
Then darkly the words of the boding strain
Like an omen rose on his soul again,
-'Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!'
But the gleaming sword and shield
Of many a battle-day
Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray.
With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound,
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd,
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice,
And the rich mead flows in light.
With a beating heart his son drew near,
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear,
-'Soft be thy step through the silence deep,
And move not the urn in the house of sleep,
For the viewless have fearful might!'
And many a Saga's rhyme,
And legend of the grave,
That shadowy scene and time
Call'd back, to daunt the brave.
But he rais'd his arm-and the flame grew dim,
And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and swim,
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well-
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell
Through the chamber of the dead!
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound,
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round;
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire,
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire
Was strewn on the Champion's head.
One moment-and all was still
In the slumberer's ancient hall,
When the rock had ceas'd to thrill
With the mighty weapon's fall.
The stars were just fading, one by one,
The clouds were just ting'd by the early sun,
When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's flame,
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came
To seek him in the tomb.
Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there,
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.
'The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth, with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?'
'I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o'er the restless deep!
'In the mantle of death he was here with me now,-
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow;
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell
With an icy ray and a withering spell-
Oh! chill is the house of sleep!'
'The morning wind blows free,
And the reddening sun shines clear;
Come forth come forth, with me!
It is dark and fearful here!'
'He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown!
But gone from his head is the kingly crown,
The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand,-
They have chas'd him far from the glorious land
Where the feast of the gods is spread!
'He must go forth alone on his phantom steed;
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed;
His place is no longer at Odin's board,
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword!
But the slayer shall avenge the dead!'
That sword its fame had won
By the fall of many a crest,
But its fiercest work was done
In the tomb on Sigurd's breast!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Crown And The Ring (Lament Of The Kings)
From a battle I've come
To a battle I ride
Blazing up to the sky
Chains of fate
Hold a firey stride
I'll see you again when I die
High and mighty alone we are kings
Whirlwinds of fire we ride
Providence brought us the crown and the ring
Covered with blood and our pride
Heroes await me
My enemies ride fast
Knowing not this ride's their last
Saddle my horse as I drink my last ale
Bow string and steel will prevail
High and mighty alone we are kings
Whirlwinds of fire we ride
Providence brought us the crown and the ring
Covered with blood and our pride
Odin I await thee
Your true son am I
I hail you now as I die
I pledge you my sword and to no man I kneel
Ours is the kingdom of steel
High and mighty alone we are kings
Whirlwinds of fire we ride
Providence brought us the crown and the ring
Covered with blood and our pride
song performed by by Manowar from Kings Of Metal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shake Dog Shake
Ha ha ha
Wake up in the dark
The after-taste of anger in the back of my mouth
Spit it on the wall
And cough some more
And scrape my skin with razor blades
And make up in the new blood
And try to look so good
Follow me
Make up in the new blood
And follow me to where the real fun is
Ha ha ha
As stale and selfish as a sick dog
Spurning sex like an animal of god
I'll tear your red hair by the roots
And hold you blazing
Hold you cherished in the dead electric light
Your face
I'll never see you this way again
I captured it so perfectly
As if i knew you'd disappear away
Shake shake shake shake
Shake shake shake shake
Shake dog shake
Shake shake shake shake
Shake shake shake shake
Shake dog shake
You hit me again
You howl and hit me again
The same sharp pain
Wakes me in the dark
And cuts me from my throat to my pounding heart
My heart
My shaking heart
My howl my shake dog
Oh shake dog shake
Shake shake
Shake dog shake
But we slept all night in the virgin's bed
And dreamed of death
And breathed like sick dogs
We slept all night in the virgin's bed
And breathed like death
And dreamed of sick dogs
Shake shake
Shake dog shake
Wake up wake up wake up
Shake dog shake
Wake up wake up wake up
Shake dog shake
Wake up in the new blood
Make up in the new blood
Shake up in the new blood
And follow me to where the real fun is
Shake dog shake
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Racism,
Racism
Racism all great foolishness to those that perish,
Black and White,
God the Master Plan for flesh and blood,
Ain't nobody telling me black and white hast that distinguish,
In my own understanding,
History is a Beauty of Humanity to live and to see,
The simple life we lead,
So short and hard by our own making,
What is the basics of racism?
Like Nietchze said,
We are the gods to wash the earth,
If we kill the black or white,
When will we see the power of God in us,
Since a power of god is revealed in man,
Let us see the earthly volition as Dynamic,
Half and half,
We all are people that share the same earth,
This planet is so Beautiful,
Whilst many waste time saying of racist,
That power will fade,
But love in secret will never perish,
Love hast that unlimited,
No half missing,
Most intellects be half missing,
But to release the burden of racism,
Let's all improve on our character,
That the positive vibe's may make the Sword increase,
Love is power of the Word,
All race one,
All blood from same brothers and sisters,
Can't you see that you can never fathom all the secrets of the world?
If we all say we all know,
Surely we all say that we all insane.
poem by Maxpoet Beauty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guardian and BloodRose
BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.
The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.
Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.
My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.
A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.
You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.
Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.
I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.
As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.
A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.
Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.
poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Folk-Mote By The River
It was up in the morn we rose betimes
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.
It was but John the Red and I,
And we were the brethren of Gregory;
And Gregory the Wright was one
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,
And what he bade us that we did
For ne’er he kept his counsel hid.
So out we went, and the clattering latch
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.
It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.
Through the cold garden boughs we went
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.
Then out a-gates and away we strode
O’er the dewy straws on the dusty road,
And there was the mead by the town-reeve’s close
Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.
Then into the mowing grass we went
Ere the very last of the night was spent.
Young was the moon, and he was gone,
So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:
But or ever the long blades felt the hay
Afar in the East the dawn was grey.
Or ever we struck our earliest stroke
The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.
While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim
The black-bird’s bill had answered him.
Ere half of the road to the river was shorn
The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.
Now wide was the way ’twixt the standing grass
For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,
And so when all our work was done
We sat to breakfast in the sun,
While down in the stream the dragon-fly
’Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;
And though our knives shone sharp and white
The swift bleak heeded not the sight.
So when the bread was done away
We looked along the new-shorn hay,
And heard the voice of the gathering-horn
Come over the garden and the corn;
For the wind was in the blossoming wheat
And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.
Then loud was the horn’s voice drawing near,
And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.
And now was the horn on the pathway wide
That we had shorn to the river-side.
So up we stood, and wide around
We sheared a space by the Elders’ Mound;
And at the feet thereof it was
That highest grew the June-tide grass;
And over all the mound it grew
With clover blent, and dark of hue.
But never aught of the Elders’ Hay
To rick or barn was borne away.
But it was bound and burned to ash
In the barren close by the reedy plash.
For ’neath that mound the valiant dead
Lay hearkening words of valiance said
When wise men stood on the Elders’ Mound,
And the swords were shining bright around.
And now we saw the banners borne
On the first of the way that we had shorn;
So we laid the scythe upon the sward
And girt us to the battle-sword.
For after the banners well we knew
Were the Freemen wending two and two.
There then that high-way of the scythe
With many a hue was brave and blythe.
And first below the Silver Chief
Upon the green was the golden sheaf.
And on the next that went by it
The White Hart in the Park did sit.
Then on the red the White Wings flew,
And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.
Last went the Anchor of the Wrights
Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.
Then thronged the folk the June-tide field
With naked sword and painted shield,
Till they came adown to the river-side,
And there by the mound did they abide.
Now when the swords stood thick and white
As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,
There rose a man on the mound alone
And over his head was the grey mail done.
When over the new-shorn place of the field
Was nought but the steel hood and the shield.
The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale,
But the hoar hair showed from the hoary mail.
And there rose a hand by the ruddy face
And shook a sword o’er the peopled place.
And there came a voice from the mound and said:
“O sons, the days of my youth are dead,
And gone are the faces I have known
In the street and the booths of the goodly town.
O sons, full many a flock have I seen
Feed down this water-girdled green.
Full many a herd of long-horned neat
Have I seen ’twixt water-side and wheat.
Here by this water-side full oft
Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.
And oft this water-side anigh
Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.
And yet meseems I live and learn
And lore of younglings yet must earn.
For tell me, children, whose are these
Fair meadows of the June’s increase.
Whose are these flocks and whose the neat,
And whose the acres of the wheat?”
Scarce did we hear his latest word,
On the wide shield so rang the sword.
So rang the sword upon the shield
That the lark was hushed above the field.
Then sank the shouts and again we heard
The old voice come from the hoary beard:
“Yea, whose are yonder gables then,
And whose the holy hearths of men?
Whose are the prattling children there,
And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?
Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand,
Bearing the freeman’s sword in hand?”
As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass,
So in the tossing swords it was;
As the thunder rattles along and adown
E’en so was the voice of the weaponed town.
And there was the steel of the old man’s sword,
And there was his hollow voice, and his word:
“Many men many minds, the old saw saith,
Though hereof ye be sure as death.
For what spake the herald yestermorn
But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;
That the lord that owneth all and some
Would send his men to fetch us home
Betwixt the haysel, and the tide
When they shear the corn in the country-side?
O children, Who was the lord? ye say,
What prayer to him did our fathers pray.
Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear?
Did their knees his high hall’s pavement wear?
Is his house built up in heaven aloft?
Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?
Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand?
Hath he cleft this water through the land?
Or doth he stay the summer-tide,
And make the winter days abide?
O children, Who is the lord? ye say,
Have we heard his name before to-day?
O children, if his name I know,
He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:
For that herald bore on back and breast
The Black Burg under the Eagle’s Nest.”
As the voice of the winter wind that tears
At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,
E’en so was the voice of laughter and scorn
By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;
And over the garden and the wheat
Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.
But now by the hoary elder stood
A carle in raiment red as blood.
Red was his weed and his glaive was white,
And there stood Gregory the Wright.
So he spake in a voice was loud and strong:
“Young is the day though the road is long;
There is time if we tarry nought at all
For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.
And safe shall our maidens sit at home
For the foe by the way we wend must come.
Through the three Lavers shall we go
And raise them all against the foe.
Then shall we wend the Downland ways,
And all the shepherd spearmen raise.
To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown
And gather the bowmen of the town;
And Greenstead next we come unto
Wherein are all folk good and true.
When we come our ways to the Outer Wood
We shall be an host both great and good;
Yea when we come to the open field
There shall be a many under shield.
And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow
And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.
But we shall dwell in the land we love
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.
Come ye, who think the time o’er long
Till we have slain the word of wrong!
Come ye who deem the life of fear
On this last day hath drawn o’er near!
Come after me upon the road
That leadeth to the Erne’s abode.”
Down then he leapt from off the mound
And back drew they that were around
Till he was foremost of all those
Betwixt the river and the close.
And uprose shouts both glad and strong
As followed after all the throng;
And overhead the banners flapped,
As we went on our ways to all that happed.
The fields before the Shivering Low
Of many a grief of manfolk know;
There may the autumn acres tell
Of how men met, and what befell.
The Black Burg under the Eagle’s nest
Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.
And sooth it is that the River-land
Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.
And there are troth-plight maids unwed
Shall deem awhile that love is dead;
And babes there are to men shall grow
Nor ever the face of their fathers know.
And yet in the Land by the River-side
Doth never a thrall or an earl’s man bide;
For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth
Hath left the merry days of Earth;
And we live on in the land we love,
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He
Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny
And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells?
Will not the lightning's blast destroy my frame?
Will not steel drink the blood-life where it swells?
No—let me hie where dark Destruction dwells,
To rouse her from her deeply caverned lair,
And, taunting her cursed sluggishness to ire,
Light long Oblivion's death-torch at its flame
And calmly mount Annihilation's pyre.
Tyrant of Earth! pale Misery's jackal Thou!
Are there no stores of vengeful violent fate
Within the magazines of Thy fierce hate?
No poison in the clouds to bathe a brow
That lowers on Thee with desperate contempt?
Where is the noonday Pestilence that slew
The myriad sons of Israel's favoured nation?
Where the destroying Minister that flew
Pouring the fiery tide of desolation
Upon the leagued Assyrian's attempt?
Where the dark Earthquake-daemon who engorged
At the dread word Korah's unconscious crew?
Or the Angel's two-edged sword of fire that urged
Our primal parents from their bower of bliss
(Reared by Thine hand) for errors not their own
By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, foreknown?
Yes! I would court a ruin such as this,
Almighty Tyrant! and give thanks to Thee--
Drink deeply—drain the cup of hate; remit this--I may die.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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