Stanzas Subjoined To The Yearly Bill Of Mortality Of The Parish Of All-Saints, Northampton. Anno Domini 1787
While thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?
No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.
Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are marked to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay tree, ever green,
WIth its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,
I passed, -- and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page!
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
No meicine, though it oft can cure
Can always balk the tomb.
And oh! that humble as my lot,
And scorned as is my strain,
These truths, though known, too much forgot,
I may not teach in vain.
So prays your Clerk with all his heart,
And, ere he quits the pen,
Begs you for once to take his part,
And answer all -- Amen!
poem by William Cowper
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Plague Plague Plague
Dead dog dead dog
Guts all down the freeway
in a dirty red streak
fur all mangled lookin
like Bob Dylan's hair
Plague plague plague
My dog's name was Missi
after this cousin I kinda
didn't like
but I never hated either
one to where I wanted
a dead cousin or dead dog dead dog
Plague Plague Plague
My cousin never writes
so I don't know what's up with her
but I know I got a dead dog dead dog
hit by a semi and pasted on the freeway
like gaudy modern art
Plague Plague Plague
Missi was a boy and he was a good dog
now he's a dead dog dead dog
let's go get drunk and
sing songs about Missi
his favorite one was that rambling
one about
Plague Plague Plague
poem by Smack Thompson
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Cardiac
A mattock high he swung;
I watched him at his toil;
With never gulp of lung
He gashed the ruddy soil.
Thought I, I'd give my wealth
To have his health.
With fortune I would part,
And privilege resign,
Could I but have his heart,
And he have mine . . .
Then suddenly I knew
My wish was true.
Like him I swung: with awe
He marked my steady breath.
Then suddenly I saw
That he was sick to death.
My heart in him was frail
And seemed to fail.
Said I: 'Take back your heart
And I will bear with mine.
Poor lad! All wealth apart
'Tis murder I design,
Not all a Nabob's wealth
Is worth your health.'
poem by Robert William Service
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Mutation.
The peaceful years, and then the stormy time
When the perturbed Earth moans, and Death himself
Seems ready to seize all his prey, 'to smite
Once and to smite no more.' Not yet the end,
And still the labour of the God goes on:
Time sows and reaps, and men are born and die;
Moons wax and wane, and all is changing still
As in the dream of some mysterious Power,
A dream of joy and woe, obscure as life —
That vagrant melody still lapsing down
The aeons to our doom!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Tears Of The fatherland
So, now we are destroyed; utterly; more than utterly!
The gang of shameless peoples, the maddening music of war,
The sword fat with blood, the thundering of the guns
Have consumed our sweat and toil, exhausted our reserves.
Towers are on fire, churches turned upside down;
The town hall is in ruins, the strong cut down, destroyed.
Young girls are raped; wherever we turn our gaze,
Fire, plague, and death pierce heart and spirit through.
Here, town and ramparts run with ever-fresh streams of blood.
It's three times six years now, since our mighty river's flow
Was blocked almost by corpses, just barely trickling through.
Yet, I pass over in silence something more terrible than death,
More desperate even than plague, fire and famine;
That so many were bereaved of their soul's treasure too.
poem by Andreas Gryphius
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Spartan Mothers
``One more embrace! Then, o'er the main,
And nobly play the soldier's part!''
Thus sounds, amid the martial strain,
The Spartan Mother's patriot heart.
She hides her woe,
She bids him go,
And tread the path his Fathers trod.
``Who dies for England, dies for God!''
In the husht night, she wakes, she weeps,
And listens for the far-off fray.
He scours the gorge, he scales the steeps,
Scatters the Foe,-away! away!
But feigned the flight!
Smite, again smite!
How fleet their steeds, how nimbly shod!
She kneels, she prays-``Protect him, God!''
Weep, tender souls. The sob, the tear,
The lonely prayer, the stifled wail,
These brace the will, these nerve the spear,
And speed him over veldt and vale.
What is to him
Or life or limb,
Who rends the chain and breaks the rod!
Who strikes for Freedom, strikes for God!
Should Heaven decree that he once more
Unscathed return to home and rest,
She will be standing at the door,
To fold him to her trembling breast.
Or, should he fall
By ridge or wall,
And lie 'neath some green southern sod,-
``Who dies for England, sleeps with God.''
poem by Alfred Austin
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Chorus Of Women
They're always abusing the women,
As a terrible plague to men:
They say we're the root of all evil,
And repeat it again and again;
Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,
All mischief, be what it may!
And pray, then, why do you marry us,
If we're all the plagues you say?
And why do you take such care of us,
And keep us so safe at home,
And are never easy a moment
If ever we chance to roam?
When you ought to be thanking heaven
That your Plague is out of the way,
You all keep fussing and fretting--
'Where is _my_ Plague to-day?'
If a Plague peeps out of the window,
Up go the eyes of men;
If she hides, then they all keep staring
Until she looks out again.
poem by Aristophanes
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Oh! Green, Stay Green!
In the brilliant spectrum of rainbow hues,
Oh, Green! Thou art a ravishing shade.
You glow and fade in distant skies,
You hide beneath the oceans deep,
You make the Earth so cheery to live,
You ward off famine and assure wealth,
You signal movement and ensure health,
You sooth the eyes and cool the hearts.
In the brilliant spectrum of rainbow hues,
Oh, Green! Thou art a ravishing shade.
Green is the garb; God gave the Earth to wear,
Green is the harbinger of blooming spring,
Green – the forests that is home to beasts,
Green – the meadows, where the cattle graze,
Green – the prairies that stretch afar,
Green – the lawns that adorn the homes,
Green – the tuft of grass that grows beneath,
Green – the unripe fruits that hangs from boughs.
In the brilliant spectrum of rainbow hues,
Oh, Green! Thou art a ravishing shade.
But Alas! The Green is fast fading out,
The verdant Earth, turned into an arid stretch,
Life made so horrid for man and beast,
And Nature mourns her doleful plight,
Toil hard to usher the Green again,
Never let the trees fall and rot,
Take from Nature just enough to make you go,
And keep in reserve what is due for the ones to come!
In the brilliant spectrum of rainbow hues,
Oh, Green! Thou art a ravishing shade.
poem by Valsa George
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Death ----- A New Life
Attacks --- Accentuates ---- Appall ---
Battles --- Bemuses ----- Bemoans --
Maims ---- Marred ----- Wastes ---
Dismembers -- Mangles ----- Devastates ---
Cold ----- Icy ------ Snow ----
Death the emperor of all truths---
Destructs the present consumed, consummate life
And grants a new life
Hence death the inevitable light-
The Destroyer and the Preserver---
The seed of a new life
Whose potential tree would be the taking body itself
Thus death isn't a death at all
But a new life.
Note: The process of death is described as it attacks, maims and finally devastates. It is a destroyer and a preserver since it endows a new life, killing the present one. Hence death isn't a death at all but a new life altogether.
poem by Green Peace
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Psalm 90
Man mortal, and God eternal
A mournful song at a funeral.
Through every age, eternal God,
Thou art our rest, our safe abode;
High was thy throne ere heav'n was made,
Or earth thy humble footstool laid.
Long hadst thou reigned ere time began,
Or dust was fashioned to a man;
And long thy kingdom shall endure
When earth and time shall be no more.
But man, weak man, is born to die,
Made up of guilt and vanity;
Thy dreadful sentence, Lord, was just,
"Return, ye sinners, to your dust."
[A thousand of our years amount
Scarce to a day in thine account;
Like yesterday's departed light,
Or the last watch of ending night.
PAUSE.
Death, like an overflowing stream,
Sweeps us away; our life's a dream,
An empty tale, a morning flower,
Cut down and withered in an hour.]
[Our age to seventy years is set;
How short the time! how frail the state!
And if to eighty we arrive,
We rather sigh and groan than live.
But O how oft thy wrath appears,
And cuts off our expected years!
Thy wrath awakes our humble dread;
We fear the power that strikes us dead.]
Teach us, O Lord, how frail is man;
And kindly lengthen out our span,
Till a wise care of piety
Fit us to die, and dwell with thee.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Grave Yard
My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death,
That walks and speaks in seeming life around;
And I would love the corse without a breath,
That sleeps forgotten 'neath the cold, cold ground;
For these do tell the story of decay,
The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie;
But this, though dying too from day to day,
With a false show doth cheat the longing eye;
And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life,
With painted cheek and smooth deceitful skin;
Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife,
A secret cavern filled with death and sin;
And men walk o'er these graves and know it not,
For in the body's health the soul's forgot.
poem by Jones Very
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Spiritual Famine
There is a famine within the land, as men hunger to understand,
The deeper issues of men’s ways, in these ever changing days.
It’s a famine of a spiritual kind, starving the heart and the mind,
In times that steadily darken, God’s Word men will not hearken.
Instead they lean upon creeds, to fill the deeper spiritual needs,
Needs from within their soul; which makes man spiritually whole.
Though religious they hunger still, as creed is not the Lord’s will,
The Lord’s ways are much higher, and Relationship is His desire.
Fellowship’s what the soul requires, to fulfill its deepest desires,
Man’s creed alone doesn’t equip, the heart for God’s fellowship.
That is why God sent His Son, to be The Mediator for everyone,
Who leaves behind empty creed, for Christ alone fills their need.
We are fed The Word of God, as Christ leads with staff and rod,
Feeding our soul with God’s Truth, with abundant lives as proof.
Avoiding famine we chose instead, His diet of life giving bread,
Following the words of Christ, the Living Truth and Bread of Life.
As the famine grips this world, Eternal Truths we need to herald,
Warning all seduced by mammon, they’ll be defeated by famine.
Only The Word of God can lead, to the prosperity we truly need,
And The Lord’s eternal prosperity, starts at the Cross of Calvary.
(Copyright ©03/2008)
Why Did Death Take You Away?
This year marked the anniversary of your death.
When you first died I couldn't take a breath.
I can't believe you've been gone so long.
It's sad you died at twenty-nine, you were wronged.
I know death is part of life's grand design.
We mourned your death for oh so long, we still morn to this day, but we're resigned.
Death is part of lives great design.
Many think death is divine or of God's design.
So, even though death took you away.
Our love for you is always here to stay.
I still ask; Why did death take you away?
Maybe the answer to that question will never go away.
*This poem is a tribute to my little sister, Tchinina. She died on May 2,2003 at the age of 29.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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They can rule the world while they can persuade us our pain belongs in some order is death by famine worse than death by suicide, than a life of famine and suicide...?
quote by Adrienne Rich
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death's Subtle Ways
Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you bind in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day,
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undu mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
poem by James Shirley
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The Last Conqueror
Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you bind-in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far
As night and day,
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
poem by James Shirley
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The Loving Tree
Three women walked upon a road,
And the first said airily,
“Of all the trees in all the world
Which is the loving tree?”
The second said, “My eyes have seen
No tree that is not fair;
But the Orange tree is the sweetest tree,
The loving blood is there.”
And the third said, “In the green time
I knew a loving tree
That gave a drink of the blood-red milk,
It was the Mulberry.”
Then the first one said, “Of all the trees
No sweetest can I name;
Ask her who yonder slowly comes—
That woman lean and lame.”
Grief like a hideous suckling hung
Along her hollow breast,
Pain was upon her as she walked,
And as she stooped to rest.
“Why will you question so?” she said,
“Is it to mock at me?
For how should I, who walk in Hell,
Know of a loving tree?
“My eyes are not as woman's eyes,
They hope not east or west:
Dull Famine my bed-mate is,
And Loneliness my guest.
“ 'Tis not the most delicious flower
That leaves the scent of Spring,
Nor is it yet the brightest bird
That loads his heart to sing.
“A tree may dance in the white weather
Or dream in a blue gown,
A tree may sing as a sweetheart
To bid the stars come down:
“Some trees are slim and lovable
And some are sleek and strong,
But the tree that has the cripple's heart
Will know the cripple's song.
“The sweetest death is the red death
That comes up nakedly,
And the tree that has the foiled heart
It is the loving tree.
“While ever lip shall seek for lip,
While ever light shall fall,
The tree that has the ruined heart
Is tenderest of all.
“Oh, ye may have your men to kiss,
And children warm to hold,
But the heart that had the hottest love
Was never yet consoled.”
The women three walked on their way,
Their shamed eyes could see
How well the tree with the foiled heart
Is still the loving tree.
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Bruadar And Smith And Glinn
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Amen, dear God, I pray,
May they lie low in waves of woe,
And tortures slow each day!
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
Helpless and cold, I pray,
Amen! I pray, O king,
To see them pine away.
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
May flails of sorrow flay!
Cause for lamenting, snares and cares
Be theirs by night and day!
Amen!
Blindness come down on Smith,
Palsy on Bruadar come,
Amen, O King of Brightness! Smite
Glinn in his members numb,
Amen!
Smith in the pangs of pain,
Stumbling on Bruadar’s path,
King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!
Let loose on Glinn Thy Wrath.
Amen!
For Bruadar gape the grave,
Up-shovel for Smith the mould,
Amen, O King of the Sunday! Leave
Glinn in the devil’s hold.
Amen!
Terrors on Bruadar rain,
And pain upon pain on Glinn,
Amen, O King of the Stars! And Smith
May the devil be linking him.
Amen!
Glinn in a shaking ague,
Cancer on Bruadar’s tongue,
Amen, O King of the Heavens! and Smith
Forever stricken dumb.
Amen!
Thirst but no drink for Glinn,
Smith in a cloud of grief,
Amen! O King of the Saints; and rout
Bruadar without relief.
Amen!
Smith without child or heir,
And Bruadar bare of store,
Amen, O King of the Friday! Tear
For Glinn his black heart’s core.
Amen!
Bruadar with nerveless limbs,
Hemp strangling Glinn’s last breath,
Amen, O King of the World’s Light!
And Smith in grips with death.
Amen!
Glinn stiffening for the tomb,
Smith wasting to decay,
Amen, O King of the Thunder’s gloom,
And Bruadar sick alway.
Amen!
Smith like a sieve of holes,
Bruadar with throat decay,
Amen, O king of the Orders! Glinn
A buck-show every day.
Amen!
Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,
Glinn led to hang on high,
Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!
And Bruadar rotting by.
Amen!
Curses on Glinn, I cry,
My curse on Bruadar be,
Amen, O king of the Heavens high!
Let Smith in bondage be.
Amen!
Showers of want and blame,
Reproach, and shame of face,
Smite them all three, and smite again,
Amen, O King of Grace!
Amen!
Melt, may the three, away,
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Fall in a swift and sure decay
And lose, but never win.
Amen!
May pangs pass through thee, Smith,
(Let the wind not take my prayer),
May I see before the year is out
Thy heart’s blood flowing there.
Amen!
Leave Smith no place nor land,
Let Bruadar wander wide,
May the Devil stand at Glinn’s right hand,
And Glinn to him be tied.
Amen!
All ill from every airt
Come down upon the three,
And blast them ere the year be out
In rout and misery.
Amen!
Glinn let misfortune bruise,
Bruadar lose blood and brains,
Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,
Let Smith be bent in chains.
Amen!
I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,
And Smith I accuse to God,
May a breach and a gap be upon the three,
And the Lord’s avenging rod.
Amen!
Each one of the wicked three
Who raised against me their hand,
May fire from heaven come down and slay
This day their perjured band,
Amen!
May none of their race survive,
May God destroy them all,
Each curse of the psalms in the holy books
Of the prophets upon them fall.
Amen!
Blight skull, and ear, and skin,
And hearing, and voice, and sight,
Amen! before the year be out,
Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight.
Amen!
May my curses hot and red
And all I have said this day,
Strike the Black Peeler, too,
Amen, dear God, I pray!
Amen!
poem by Douglas Hyde
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Scenes In London IV - The City Churchyard
I PRAY thee lay me not to rest
Among these mouldering bones;
Too heavily the earth is prest
By all these crowded stones.
Life is too gay—life is too near—
With all its pomp and toil;
I pray thee do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.
The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake
The slumbers of the dead;
I cannot bear for life to make
Its pathway o'er my head.
The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.
No: lay me in the far green fields
The summer sunshine cheers;
And where the early wild flower yields
The tribute of its tears.
Where shadows the sepulchral yew,
Where droops the willow tree,
Where the long grass is filled with dew—
Oh! make such grave for me!
And passers-by, at evening's close,
Will pause beside the grave,
And moralize o'er the repose
They fear, and yet they crave.
Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, As fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
Here Poesy and Love come not—
It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—
Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—
Give loveliness to death.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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On The Death Of Rebecca
Thou delicate blossom; thy short race is ended,
Thou sample of virtue and prize of the brave!
No more are thy beauties by mortals attended,
They now are but food for the worms and the grave.
Thou art gone to the tomb, whence there's no returning,
And left us behind in a vale of suspense;
In vain to the dust do we follow thee mourning,
The same doleful trump will soon call us all hence.
I view thee now launched on eternity's ocean,
Thy soul how it smiles as it floats on the wave;
It smiles as if filled with the softest emotion,
But looks not behind on the frowns of the grave.
The messenger came from afar to relieve thee--
In this lonesome valley no more shalt thon roam;
Bright seraphs now stand on the banks to receive thee,
And cry, 'Happy stranger, thou art welcome at home.'
Thou art gone to a feast, while thy friends are bewailing,
Oh, death is a song to the poor ransom'd slave;
Away with bright visions the spirit goes sailing,
And leaves the frail body to rest in the grave.
Rebecca is free from the pains of oppression,
No friends could prevail with her longer to stay;
She smiles on the fields of eternal fruition,
Whilst death like a bridegroom attends her away.
She is gone in the whirlwind--ye seraphs attend her,
Through Jordan's cold torrent her mantle may lave;
She soars in the chariot, and earth falls beneath her,
Resign'd in a shroud to a peaceable grave.
poem by George Moses Horton
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His Youth
Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.
'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.
'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.
'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.
'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.
'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?
''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.
'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.
'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.
'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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