On Ye Queens Death
The Persians us'd at setting of ye sunn
To howl, as if he nere again should runn
They onely acted it but we indeed
Must doot for all that lovely was is fled
all that was great good Just & vertuous Dead.
The poets of ye graces do relate
that they did upon none but Venus wait
'Tis false or this was she for in each eye
of hers ten thousand graces you might spy
So many her vertues were Death heard ym told
Mistook ye for her dayes & thought her old
yet she is gone all that was lovely fled,
all that was great good Just & vertuous dead
When Romulus was taken to ye gods
& Ceesar mounted to ye blest abodes
in floods & earth-quakes nature Largely grievd
for these her Heroes heaven had receivd
She wept indeed then now she cannot weep
the stillness of ye waves but shows ye deep
the greatness of ye Loss putts all her faculties asleep.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Related quotes
On Sir Thomas Savill Dying Of The Small Pox
Take, greedy death, a body here entomd
That by a thousand stroakes was made one wound,
Where all thy shafts were stuck with fatall ayme
Untill a quiver this thy marke became,
Had Cæsar fifty wounds to let in thee
Because a troop of men might seeme to bee
Comprised in that great Spirit, this had more
Whose deaths were equalld with the fruitfull store
Of hopefull vertues, though each wound did reach
The very heart, yet none could make a breach
Into his soule, a soule more fully drest
With vertuous gemmes than was his body prest
With hatefull spotts, and therefore every scarr
When death itselfe is dead shall be a starre.
poem by William Strode
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Easter Day, II
So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,
I with my secret self held communing of mine own.
So in the southern city spake the tongue
Of one that somewhat overwildly sung,
But in a later hour I sat and heard
Another voice that spake another graver word.
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said,
Though He be dead, He is not dead.
In the true creed
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.
Weep not beside His tomb,
Ye women unto whom
He was great comfort and yet greater grief;
Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with Him to roam,
Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to your home;
Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief;
Though He be dead, He is not dead,
Nor gone, though fled,
Not lost, though vanished;
Though He return not, though
He lies and moulders low;
In the true creed
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.
Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground,
Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around.
Whate’er befel,
Earth is not hell;
Now, too, as when it first began,
Life is yet life, and man is man.
For all that breathe beneath the heaven’s high cope,
Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope.
Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief;
Or at least, faith unbelief.
Though dead, not dead;
Not gone, though fled;
Not lost, though vanished.
In the great gospel and true creed,
He is yet risen indeed;
Christ is yet risen.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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On Sr Charles Porter The Chancellours Death
& tis too true alass! we find, he's gonn,
Virtue from earth a second time is flown,
She onely then with her two sisters flew,
But now since he, what ere were good withdrew;
Uncertain where to fix, in him they lost their seat,
& had But Heaven as a sure retreat.
He Held ye scales when Justice Hand did shake:
When He, youd think that wisdomes self did speak.
He was with Honour blest, with Honesty, & praise,
ev'n Blest with all we could desire but dayes:
& those were much too few, for he is gon
(Not for himself but for ye world) too soon.
In him we found, & with him buried lies
What ever poets gave their deity's,
Joves Brow, Minervas learning, Hermes tongue
Apollo's wisdom, yeares, & his still seeming young;
The same sweet temper he to all did shew,
& as his face his mind no wrinkle knew.
He when with foes opprest was still ye same,
Pittying forgave, & smiling overcame.
this glorious sunn, like Heavens, was o're cast
By enymies, as that By clouds opprest,
That keepes his lookes compos'd, & this his breast.
Both do in glory sett, as both in glory reign,
But this for ever, that to rise again.
Perfections here as to their centre flowd,
He was tho great, yet farr from being proud.
Was gentle, liberall, & tho modest free,
Gold has allay, nay ev'ry thing but he.
yet is he tak'n away snatcht hence by heaven
as if it seemd to envy what 't had given.
But when we've such a loss—
How can ye planetts shine ye cloudes not melt to rain
But ev'ry thing their wonted course retain.
Heav'n in our sorrow cannot have a share
We've lost a god on earth 't has got a saint a starr
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On The Death Of Sir Thomas Lea
You that affright with lamentable notes
The servants from their beef, whose hungry throats
Vex the grume porter's surly conscience:
That blesse the mint for coyning lesse than pence:
You whose unknown and meanly payd desarts
Begge silently within, and knocke at hearts:
You whose commanding worth makes men beleeve
That you a kindnesse give when you receave:
All sorts of them that want, your tears now lend:
A House-keeper, a Patron, and a Friend
Is lodged in clay. The man whose table fedde
So many while he lived, since hee is dead,
Himselfe is turn'd to food: whose chimney burn'd
So freely then, is now to ashes turn'd.
The man which life unto the Muses gave
Seeks life of them, a lasting Epitaph:
And hee from whose esteeme all vertues found
A just reward, now prostrate in the ground,
(Like some huge ancient oake, that ere it fell,
Could not be measur'd by the rule so well)
Desires a faythfull comment on his dayes,
Such as shall neither lye to wrong or prayse:
But oh! what Muse is halfe so pure, so strong,
What marble sheets can keepe his name so long
As onely hee hath lived? then who can tell
A perfect story of his living well?
The noble fire that spur'd and whetted on
His bravely vertuous resolution
Could not so soone be quencht as weaker soules
Whose feebler sparke an ach or thought controuls.
His life burnt to the snuffe; a snuffe that needs
No socket to conceale the stench, but feeds
Our sence like costly fumes: his manly breath
Felt no disease but age; and call'd for Death
Before it durst intrude, or thought to try
That strength of limbs, that soules integrity.
Looke on his silver hayres, his graceful browe,
And Gravity itselfe might Lea avowe
Her father: Time, his schoolmate. Fifty years
Once wedlocke he embrac't: a date that bears
Fayre scope, if Soule and Body chance to bee
So long a couple as his wife and hee.
But number you his deeds, they so outpasse
The largest size of any mortal glasse,
That though hee liv'd a thousand, some would crye
Alas! he dyde in his minority.
His dayes and deeds would nere be counted even
Without Eternity, which now is given.
Such descants poore men make; who miss him more
Than sixe great men, that keeping house before
After a spurt unconstantly are fledd
Away to London. But the man that's dead
Is gone unto a place more populous,
And tarries longer there, and waites for us.
poem by William Strode
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Retrieved Poetry
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
But the inspiration keeps coming,
But the memory keeps living.
Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;
It dies only if it is not poetry
And there is only a good few poetry.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
Until we start seeing poetry as poetry
And nothing more, until that day,
Until we start thinking he is inspired,
Until we stop thinking for the poet;
He is possessed he is innocent.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument.
Even as we cut from the same tree,
Even as we speak same universal language,
You cannot cut deep if your axe's blunt.
We can never speak from same mouth.
You can only say your own thought.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument,
If poetry is dead killed by death,
If poetry is dead swallowed by death,
The corpse should be in our front.
We should know how to bury it.
We should dig not cover it with dust.
Poetry is dead,
If poetry is really dead,
There is cause to weep bitterly,
There is cause to think deeply
For the world has been stripped naked.
For poetry is great, ageless, timeless, bottomless
At the burial we must remain emotionless.
poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
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An Epitaph On The Marchioness Of Winchester
This rich Marble doth enterr
The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,
Besides what her vertues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More then she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darknes, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Bin as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-wel-lighted flame;
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cipress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorsles cruelty,
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The haples Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languisht Mothers Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen som tender slip
Sav'd with care from Winters nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,
Who onely thought to crop the flowr
New shot up from vernall showr;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast'ning funerall.
Gentle Lady may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest sease thee evermore,
That to give the world encrease,
Shortned hast thy own lives lease;
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Weept for thee in Helicon,
And som Flowers, and som Bays,
For thy Hears to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy vertuous name;
Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after yeers of barrennes,
The highly favour'd Joseph bore
To him that serv'd for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the boosom bright
of blazing Majesty and Light,
There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet: On Greatness
Greatness is not a thing, much like an art;
Some man turns great if on it he stumbles;
His greatness ceases, if he thinks, he's great;
Great is he truly who tho' great, humbles.
Greatness is not true greatness, self-proclaimed;
Greatness is not what world showers on us;
Greatness is neither got by being claimed.
Greatness is not achieved by making fuss.
Greatness could come if world decides to give;
Greatness will stay if God blesses our work;
Such greatness, God-destined comes while men live;
Greatness can grow even without much luck.
Greatness doesn't come to everyone on earth;
Some men are made great; some are great by birth.
poem by John Celes
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Papa-Omm-Mow-Mow
Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow
The Beach Boys
Frazier/White/Wilson, Jr./Harris
The last time we were up here
We did a song by another group of guys
We like very much
A real friendly group of guys
Called the Rivingtons
Their song is called "Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow"
A papa-oom-mow-mow
A papa-oom-mow-mow
A papa-oom-mow-mow
A papa-oom-mow-mow
Funniest sound I ever heard
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
But I can't understand a single word
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Well if he's serious or if he's playin'
Woo my my it's all he's sayin
Papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Well say there pop, say what's your name?
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Well don't you come around and show your face
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
But hearing the sound I can't figure it out
Oo-wee this sound makes me stop and shout
Papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
Doot doot doot
Doot doot doot
A papa-papa-papa-papa-oom-mow-mow
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Doot doot doot
Well I hear this sound everywhere I go
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
From the record, TV, or the radio
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
But now it's spreadin' all through the land
I still can't seem to understand
Papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-papa-hoooo
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-hoooo
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-papa-hoooo
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-hoooo
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
Papa-papa-papa-hoooo
Doot doot doot
(A papa-oom-mow-mow a papa-oom-mow-mow)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Storm.
I can hear the great boughs swing
Through the stormy night,
Each a dryad-haunted thing
With its dark delight,
As within an old-world air
When the Gods were everywhere.
All the wood seems to be up
At some eerie play,
Wild as Bacchanals whose sup
Had all through the day
Been a deep one, as they roar
With the waves upon the shore.
'Tis in sooth as Pan, too, mad
For fair Syrinx fled,
Had from Hades come, and had
Brought with him the dead
Who of old had worshipped him
To a midnight revel grim.
Or is it that Syrinx too,
From the reed restored,
Romps it as the satyrs do
With her now-loved lord?
And is this the night of nights,
And are these their marriage rites?
Who shall say? The great boughs swing,
As Time in a whirl
Did to the dark forest bring
The goat-god and his girl,
With the earth-enamoured crew
For a mystic hour or two.
Till amid the tumult I
Fall asleep, like one
Who had put the ages by
In a dream begun
Far back in another sphere,
Ere my 'wildered soul came here!
Ah! the dream that may indeed
Outlive all I know,
When like one whom Fate has freed
I through Hades go,
And see the great vision cast
On the future by the past.
poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dead Hope
Hope new born one pleasant morn
Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore.
No, not in heaven.
If his shroud were but a cloud
To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
To sprout some day!
But dead and gone is dead and gone
Vainly wept upon.
Nought we place above his face
To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
In our lot.
Hope has birth no more on earth
Morn or even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
No, not in heaven.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Ring Out Your Bells
Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;
For Love is dead--
All love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain;
Worth, as nought worth, rejected,
And Faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's folly;
His winding-sheet is shame;
His will, false-seeming holy;
His sole exec'tor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
Let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead;
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart,
Which epitaph containeth,
"Her eyes were once his dart."
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
Alas, I lie, rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead;
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind,
Where she his counsel keepeth,
Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a franzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
poem by Philip Sidney
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The Convict's Return
Ye mountains and glens of fair Scotland I'm with ye once again,
During my absence from ye my heart was like to break in twain;
Oh! How I longed to see you and the old folks at home,
And with my lovely Jeannie once more in the green woods to roam.
Now since I've returned safe home again
I will try and be content
With my lovely Jeannie at home,
And forget my banishment.
My Jeannie and me will get married,
And I will be to her a good man,
And we'll live happy together,
And do the best we can.
I hope my Jeannie and me
Will always happy be,
And never feel discontent;
And at night at the fireside
I'll relate to her the trials of my banishment.
But now I will never leave my Jeannie again
Until the day I die;
And before the vital spark has fled
I will bid ye all good-bye.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Brothers
Do you remember how we crept
Across out bedroom to our bed,
Fearing the dark! And how you wept?
And on a sudden lay like lead?
And how I feared that you were dead,
But heard you breathing as you slept?
And now we're buried, buried deep,
And lie in silence head by head.
I neither hear you breathe nor weep.
We lie together in our bed.
I do not fear that you are dead.
I know that you are fast asleep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Weep Not For Him That Dieth
I.
WEEP not for him that dieth--
For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth
On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth
Where ye see his face no more!
II.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For friends are round his bed,
And many a young lip sigheth
When they name the early dead;
But weep for him that liveth
Where none will know or care,
When the groan his faint heart giveth
Is the last sigh of despair.
III.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery;
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain:
To the agony he beareth,
Death were but little pain.
IV.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For he hath ceased from tears,
And a voice to his replieth
Which he hath not heard for years;
But weep for him who weepeth
On that cold land's cruel shore--
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,--
Weep for the dead no more!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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All Dressed Up For School
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Well she first caught my eye a runnin' round in shorts
But she never bothered with her hair
Just a barefooted chick with all skinned up knees
Yeah she didn't care what she'd wear
(All dressed up for school)
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
All dressed up for school
All summer long she had a crush on me
But I just couldn't care at all
But new to school threads really did it for me
Yeah she's turned into a doll
(All dressed up for school)
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
All dressed up for school
Weah
Goes out every night 'cause she's a sharp little doll
And the guys can't leave her alone
Now she hardly finds the time to talk to me
She's not the little girl I've always known
(All dressed up for school)
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
Dressed up for school, ooo what a turn on
All dressed up for school
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
Doot doot doot-doot doot
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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’Tis So Lovely To …
’Tis so lovely to be born a Christian;
’Tis so lovely to be a Roman Catholic;
’Tis so lovely to follow Jesus Christ;
’Tis so lovely to know the one, living God;
’Tis so lovely to read the Holy Bible;
’Tis so lovely to have Christian parents
’Tis so lovely to walk in the shadow of the Holy cross;
’Tis so lovely to spread the Gospel;
’Tis so lovely to obey God’s Ten Commandments;
’Tis so lovely to abide by the precepts of the holy Catholic Church;
’Tis so lovely to receive the Holy Sacraments;
’Tis so lovely to confess sins and gain forgiveness from God;
’Tis so lovely to receive the Holy Eucharist;
’Tis so lovely to be an example of Christ unto others;
’Tis so lovely to be a “Fisher of Souls”;
’Tis so lovely to do miracles like Christ;
’Tis so lovely to heal the sick by prayers;
’Tis so lovely to console the sick and the dying;
’Tis so lovely to live a life like that of Christ;
’Tis so lovely to keep the soul pure;
’Tis so lovely to be filled by the Holy Spirit;
’Tis so lovely to take the road to heaven;
’Tis so lovely to die a holy Christian death;
’Tis so lovely to resurrect after death;
’Tis so lovely to be spared of eternal damnation;
’Tis so lovely to have eternal life;
’Tis so lovely to live in commune with God
Forever in Heaven thereafter!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-16-2006
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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AN ELEGY Upon S. W. R.
I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin
To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin
An Actor in thy death. Thy life and age
Was but a various Scene on fortunes Stage,
With whom thou tugg'st & strov'st ev'n out of breath
In thy long toil: nere master'd till thy death;
And then despight of trains and cruell wit,
Thou did'st at once subdue malice and it.
I dare not then so blast thy memory
As say I do lament or pity thee.
Were I to choose a subject to bestow
My pity on, he should be one as low
In spirit as desert. That durst not dy
But rather were content by slavery
To purchase life: or I would pity those
Thy most industrious and friendly foes:
Who when they thought to make thee scandals story
Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory.
That thought by cutting off some wither'd dayes,
(Which thou could'st spare them) to eclipse thy praise;
Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame
Appear more white and fair, then foul their shame:
And did promote an Execution
Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done.
Such worthless things as these were onely born
To live on Pities almes (too mean for scorn.)
Thou dy'dst an envious wonder, whose high fate
The world must still admire, scarce imitate.
poem by Henry King
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Ladys Tomb
As in the gardens, all through May, the rose,
Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose, -
So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes;
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That dead, as living, she may be with roses.
poem by Pierre Ronsard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lines Written On Hearing The News Of The Death Of Napoleon
What! alive and so bold, O Earth?
Art thou not overbold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not HIS death-knell knolled?
And livest THOU still, Mother Earth?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O’er the embers covered and cold
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled--
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?
'Who has known me of old,' replied Earth,
'Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art overbold.'
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, 'To my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
'Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth,
'I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousandfold
Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth.
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
'Ay, alive and still bold.' muttered Earth,
'Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow to mould
The metal before it be cold;
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.'
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Today... 'Commander
A great Leader and Commander was given
charge of leading His people into heaven.
We walk in His footsteps and obey His words
for He is our King of kings and Lord of lords.
'Come and choose this day whom you will serve' we hear
the voice of Joshua calling loud and clear
and joining with him in this response we say
'as for me—I will serve the Lord from this day.'
Examples of His leadership can be seen
in the miracles performed on this worlds scene.
Demonstrating His power as King of kings
and His right to be Commander of all things
Healing the Centurions Servant (Luke 7: 1-10)
'Just say the word and Your great power reveal
for I believe that my servant You can heal.
I'm a man understanding authority
and can recognise it in the One I see.'
These are words the Centurion said to You
for he saw great authority in You too.
As Commander Your authority's not bound
by any earthly barrier or battleground.
The Raising of Lazarus from the dead (John 11: 17-44)
They opened the tomb and rolled the stone away
then they heard Your command in a loud voice say
'Lazarus come out' and before them they saw
he who had been dead was not dead any more.
Healing the man possessed (Mark 5: 1-13)
With this man the demons always had their way
among the tombs during the night and the day.
'Legion, Come out of him' to the man You said
and at the Commanders voice the demons fled.
They had to obey You for You were Divine
and they fled to the hills entering the swine.
Then the two thousand demons ran down the bank
fell into the sea and they all drowned and sank.
Stilling the storm (Mark 4: 35-41)
Petrified in the boat they were panicking
as the waves of the sea came cascading in.
You awoke Lord and then commanded the sea
'Be still, ' You said with awesome authority.
'What manner of man is this' out loud they cried.
Amazed as they saw the wind and sea subside.
The storm was quelled and the wind and rain did cease
the Commander obeyed, they were left in peace.
Conclusion
Mightier than any tempestuous sea
Mightier than clashing thunderstorm is He.
Our Commander God is The Sovereign Lord
all heaven and hell have to obey His word.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)