On The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese
IT was a 'moral' end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been 'vainly' sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern control
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Related quotes
A Christmas Lullabay
A Christmas Lullaby
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother
sings:
Heaven's angels kneel and fold
their wings.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
With swathes of scented hay Thy
bed
By Mary's hand at eve was
spread.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
At midnight came the shepherds,
they
Whom seraphs wakened by the
way.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
And three kings from the East
afar,
Ere dawn came, guided by the
star.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
They brought Thee gifts of gold
and gems,
Pure orient pearls, rich diadems.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thou who liest slumbering there,
Art King of Kings, earth, ocean,
air.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds
sing:
Through heaven, through earth,
hosannas ring.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
poem by Akingbehin Daniel Murphy
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Go, Tell It On The Mountain
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
When I was just a learner
I sought by night and day
To have the good lord help me
To guide me on my way
For I am like a shepherd
My hopes and faith to guard
Each day I find the answer
And love is my reward
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
The shepherds kept their watching
Oer silent flocks by night
When lo! throughout the heavens
There shone a holy light
The shepherds feared and trembled
When high above the earth
Rang out an angels chorus
To hail our saviors birth
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
Our jesus, jesus christ is born
That jesus christ is born
Go and tell, tell it on the mountain
That jesus christ, christ is born
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleep No Man Desires
There is a sleep no man desires
There is something about that sleep
That sends fear down the hearts of men
That world unknown yet revered by fear
That surrounds a man when he goes to sleep
It is the sleep of the tired women
It is the sleep of the defeated elands
It is the sleep that makes the hyenas laugh
It is the sleep that feeds the vultures
It is the sleep that no man loves
But is the eventual sleep for all that breaths
It is the sleep of paradise
A paradise so desired for good deeds on earth
Yet it is the sleep that hounds the aged and the poor
A sleep that embraces the dying
A sleep that knows no class
It is the silent sleep on angels' chariots
Take a pillow and courage to slip into it
Courage, be brave and face that sleep
That sleep that frightens the mighty
That sleep that is wild on eart
That sleep that has no path
That is hated and more than loathed
A sleep that captured great men of history
It is the sleep of the GONE.
poem by Major Elazia
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Alas! What Boots The Long Laborious Quest
ALAS! what boots the long laborious quest
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;
Or pains abstruse-to elevate the will,
And lead us on to that transcendent rest
Where every passion shall the sway attest
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;
What is it but a vain and curious skill,
If sapient Germany must lie deprest,
Beneath the brutal sword?-Her haughty Schools
Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say-
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
More for mankind at this unhappy day
Then all the pride of intellect and thought?
poem by William Wordsworth
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Trafalgar Square
These verses have I pilfered like a bee
Out of a letter from my C. C. C.
In London, showing what befell him there,
With other things, of interest to me
One page described a night in open air
He spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,
With men and women who by want are driven
Thither for lodging, when the nights are fair.
No roof there is between their heads and heaven,
No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,
No comfort but the company of those
Who with despair, like them, have vainly striven.
On benches there uneasily they doze,
Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,
And if through weariness they might sleep sound,
Their eyes must open almost ere they close.
With even tramp upon the paven ground,
Twice every hour the night patrol comes round
To clear these wretches off, who may not keep
The miserable couches they have found.
Yet the stern shepherds of the poor black sheep
Will soften when they see a woman weep.
There was a mother there who strove in vain,
With sobs, to hush a starving child to sleep.
And through the night which took so long to wane,
He saw sad sufferers relieving pain,
And daughters of iniquity and scorn
Performing deeds which God will not disdain.
There was a girl, forlorn of the forlorn,
Whose dress was white, but draggled, soiled, and torn,
Who wandered like a ghost without a home,
She spoke to him before the day was born.
She, who all night, when spoken to, was dumb,
Earning dislike from most, abuse from some,
Now asked the hour, and when he told her `Two,'
Wailed, `O my God, will daylight never come?'
Yes, it will come, and change the sky anew
From star-besprinkled black to sunlit blue,
And bring sweet thoughts and innocent desires
To countless girls. What will it bring to you?
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Gains Of Iniquity
WHEN I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP,
MY ENEMIES RISE TO CONGREGATE AGAINST ME,
THEY HAVE SLAYED ME IN THE LAND OF SLEEP,
THEY HAVE CUT ME UP TO LOOK LIKE A MAGGOT,
THEY RAVISH MY WIFE IN MY DEAD-SLEEP PRESENCE,
THEY HAVE MADE ME A MOCKERY AMONGST THEIR KIND,
I STAND, AN OBJECT OF RIDICULE BY WHORES,
YEA, THE LAND OF THE DEAD IS ALIVE WITH WOES AND PAINS,
THE DEAD WEEP AND WAIL FOR THE BURDEN IT BEARS,
THE BURDEN BY RELIGION,
THE YOKE BY GOD,
YEA, THEM THAT HATH AN EAR WILL HEAR LIES,
THEM THAT SEE, WILL SEE MIRAGES AND CALL THEM VISIONS,
THE TONGUES OF THY OFFSPRINGS SHALL BRING FORTH UNTRUTHS,
WOE UNTO THEM THAT ADHERE TO THE TONGUE'S OF HARLOTS,
WOE UNTO THEM THAT LISTEN TO PROSTITUTES,
THOU SHALL INHERIT THAT WHICH THOU HAST ACCEPTED TO INHERIT,
YEA, GOD AND HIS SERVANTS SHALL BEQUEATH THEE WITH THEIR INIQUITY,
YEA, YOU SHALL INHERIT VENGEANCE,
ENEMIES SHALL FALL UPON THEE,
YOU SHALL REAP THE FRUITS OF THY WICKED LABOUR,
YEA, A SHAMEFULL END SHALL BE THY PORTION,
OH YE WORKERS OF INIQUITY
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Belated Conscience
To buy for school a copy-book
I asked my Dad for two-pence;
He gave it with a gentle look,
Although he had but few pence.
'Twas then I proved myself a crook
And came a moral cropper,
I bought a penny copy-book
And blued the other copper.
I spent it on a sausage roll
Gulped down with guilt suggestion,
To the damnation of my soul
And awful indigestion.
Poor Dad! His job was hard to hold;
His mouths to feed were many;
Were he alive a millionfold
I'd pay him for his penny.
Now nigh the grave I think with grief,
Though other sins are many,
I am a liar and a thief
'Cause once I stole a penny:
Yet be he pious as a friar
It is my firm believing,
That every man has been a liar
And most of us done thieving.
poem by Robert William Service
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On An Engraving Of Hindoo Temples
LITTLE the present careth for the past,
Too little—'tis not well!
For careless ones we dwell
Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast.
Its blessings are around our daily path,
We share its mighty spoil,
We live on its great toil,
And yet how little gratitude it hath.
Look on these temples, they were as a shrine
From whence to the far north
The human mind went forth,
The moral sunshine of a world divine—
That inward world which maketh of our clay
Its temporary home;
From whence those lightnings come,
That kindle from a far and better day.
The light that is of heaven shone there the first
The elements of art,
Mankind's diviner part;
There was young science in its cradle nurst.
Mighty the legacies by mind bequeathed,
For glorious were its pains
Amid those giant fanes,
And mighty were the triumphs it achieved
A woman's triumph mid them is imprest
One who upon the scroll
Flung the creative soul,
Disdainful of life's flowers and of its rest.
Vast was the labour, vast the enterprise,
For she was of a race
Born to the lowest place,
Earth-insects, lacking wings whereon to rise.
How must that youthful cheek have lost its bloom,
How many a dream above
Of early hope and love
Must that young heart have closed on like a tomb.
Such throw life's flowers behind them, and aspire
To ask the stars their lore
And from each ancient store
Seek food to stay the mind's consuming fire.
Her triumph was complete and long, the chords
She struck are yet alive;
Not vainly did she strive
To leave her soul immortal on her words.
A great example has she left behind,
A lesson we should take,
Whose first task is to wake
The general wish to benefit our kind.
Our sword has swept o'er India; there remains
A nobler conquest far,
The mind's ethereal war,
That but subdues to civilize its plains.
Let us pay back the past, the debt we owe,
Let us around dispense
Light, hope, intelligence,
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go.
O England, thine be the deliverer's meed,
Be thy great empire known
By hearts made all thine own,
By thy free laws and thy immortal creed.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Catholic Priesthood and ‘Year of the Priests’
‘The sheep are calling;
The flocks are swelling;
Good shepherds are a dearth,
Upon the mighty earth! ’
All sheep need good shepherds;
Sans shepherds good, they are mere herds,
That cannot find the pastures green,
With grass that’s fit on global scene.
Good shepherds know each sheep by name;
They do not work for pay or fame;
They know the wolf’s, many a game;
Their staff protects the sheep that’s lame!
Priests are the good shepherds of God;
They woo the souls away from rod;
They serve by being celibate,
And show humanity, God’s Gate.
They say the Holy Mass each day;
They preach and fast, fervently pray;
They drive the devils out, away,
Suffer for Jesus, come what may!
They change bread to body of Christ;
They change the wine to blood of Christ;
They forgive sins like Jesus Lord;
They tell the world the Divine Word.
Priesthood is one of sacraments;
Priests know the Old, New Testaments;
Their work is worth more than all gold;
They bring more souls unto God’s fold!
This is the ‘Year of Catholic priest’.
Lord Jesus waits with His great Feast;
Happy are souls, even the least;
God saves all sinners from the Beast.
Priests take vows for a divine role –
To lead souls to God’s Abode – goal.
Those worldly ones are merely fools!
God chooses priests to be pure souls.
‘Priesthood is passion great for Christ –
The profession that’s one highest;
The goal of men who are wisest –
Who live for Jesus’ sake, diest.’
Dedicated to all Catholic Priests world-over,
On behalf of ‘Holy Family Church Parish, Perundurai, TN, India.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 28-6-2009
poem by John Celes
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The Shepherds in Judea
Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,
They are pacing to and fro.
For the air grows chill at twilight
And the weanling lambs are slow!
Leave, O lambs, the dripping sedges, quit the bramble and the brier,
Leave the fields of barley stubble, for we light the watching fire;
Twinkling fires across the twilight, and a bitter watch to keep,
Lest the prowlers come a-thieving where the flocks unguarded sleep.
Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,
They are singing soft and low—
Song the blessed angels taught them
All the centuries ago!
There was never roof to hide them, there were never walls to bind;
Stark they lie beneath the star-beams, whom the blessed angels find,
With the huddled flocks upstarting, wondering if they hear aright.
While the Kings come riding, riding, solemn shadows in the night.
Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,
They are thinking, as they go,
Of the light that broke their watching
On the hillside in the snow!—
Scattered snow along the hillside, white as springtime fleeces are,
With the whiter wings above them and the glory-streaming star—
Guiding-star across the housetops; never fear the Shepherds felt
Till they found the Babe in manger where the kindly cattle knelt.
Oh, the Shepherds in Judea!—
Do you think the Shepherds know
How the whole round earth is brightened
In the ruddy Christmas glow?
How the sighs are lost in laughter, and the laughter brings the tears,
As the thoughts of men go seeking back across the darkling years
Till they find the wayside stable that the star-led Wise Men found,
With the Shepherds, mute, adoring, and the glory shining round!
poem by Mary Austin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Alex. Smith, The 'Glasgow Poet,' On His Sonnet To 'Fame
Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man
Call for the thing that is his pure desire!
Fame is the birthright of the living lyre!
To noble impulse Nature puts no ban.
Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised!
Tho' all thy great emotions like a sea,
Against her stony immortality,
Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed.
Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse:
Yet if in her cold eyes the end of all
Be visible, as on her large closed lips
Hangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth; -
She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call,
The mighty warning of a Poet's birth.
poem by George Meredith
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Sleep, Sleep
Sleep, sleep lazy fool
You’ve fought to long
And now you’re free to tool
Don’t wake blind maiden
Sleep, sleep small child
There are terrors to come
You won’t sleep forever
Cause you’ll never be done
Sleep, sleep little blossom
Because that’s all you can do
Sleep, the sleep of dreamers
And wake again a new
poem by Eric Andrew James
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Conference Between Christ, The Saints, And The Soul
I am pale with sick desire,
For my heart is far away
From this world's fitful fire
And this world's waning day;
In a dream it overleaps
A world of tedious ills
To where the sunshine sleeps
On th' everlasting hills.
Say the Saints—There Angels ease us
Glorified and white.
They say—We rest in Jesus,
Where is not day nor night.
My Soul saith—I have sought
For a home that is not gained,
I have spent yet nothing bought,
Have laboured but not attained;
My pride strove to rise and grow,
And hath but dwindled down;
My love sought love, and lo!
Hath not attained its crown.
Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us,
None languish nor recede.
They say—We love our Jesus,
And He loves us indeed.
I cannot rise above,
I cannot rest beneath,
I cannot find out Love,
Nor escape from Death;
Dear hopes and joys gone by
Still mock me with a name;
My best beloved die
And I cannot die with them.
Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us,
Where our rest is glorious.
They say—We live in Jesus,
Who once died for us.
Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings
And pants to fly away
Up to immortal Things
In the Heavenly day:
Yet she flags and almost faints;
Can such be meant for me?
Come and see—say the Saints.
Saith Jesus—Come and see.
Say the Saints—His Pleasures please us
Before God and the Lamb.
Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus—
Be with Me where I am.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Red sky at night is a shepherds delight, red sky in the morning is a shepherds warning.
The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.
quote by Gaston Bachelard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Henry Bartle Edward Frere
Bend down and read-the birth, the death, the name.
Born in the year that Waterloo was won,
And died in this, whose days are not yet run,
But which, because a year conceived in shame,
No noble need will christen or will claim.
And yet this dead man, England, was Thy son,
And at his grave we ask what had he done,
Bred to be famous, to be foiled of Fame.
Be the reply his epitaph: That he,
In years as youth, the unyielding spirit bore
He got from Thee, but Thou hast got no more;
And that it is a bane and bar to be
A child of Thine, now the adventurous sea
All vainly beckons to a shrinking shore.
Therefore, great soul, within your marble bed
Sleep sound, nor hear the useless tears we weep.
Why should you wake, when England is asleep,
Or care to live, since England now is dead?
Forbidden are the steeps where Glory led;
No more from furrowed danger of the deep
We harvest greatness; to our hearths we creep,
Count and recount our coin, and nurse our dread.
The sophist's craft hath grown a prosperous trade,
And womanish Tribunes hush the manly drum:
The very fear of Empire strikes us numb,
Fumbling with pens, who brandished once the blade.
Therefore, great soul, sleep sound where you are laid,
Blest in being deaf when Honour now is dumb.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Stranger's Song
(As sung by Mr. Charles Charrington in the play of "The Three Wayfarers")
O MY trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all--
My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take 'em up on high,
And waft 'em to a far countree!
My tools are but common ones,
Simple shepherds all--
My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
Are implements enough for me!
To-morrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all--
To-morrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,
And on his soul may God ha' mer-cy!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Sleeper
Sleep that half dead,
sleep the body not the head.
Sleep that bad said,
Poor owns that bed,
Dreams are found on that herd.
Sleep while awake,
Sleep that dead not closed eye fake.
Sleep that weak,
Tommorow u gona take.
Eat that sleep and enjoy its steak.
Sleep still stands,
None to overtake.
Sleep that height dare for cake.
Sleep that stress and have the bless,
Sleep to confess as she do to embrance,
Sleep for paid cash as he do to love false.
Sleep that sleep as no one sleep ever deep.
Sleep that better as no other sleeper.
Wear that sweater as did Brother Peter,
Sleep that firm to dream that greater,
Sleep not slopy arrise all the weaker.
poem by Abdallah Mpogole
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When many shepherds tend the sheep, they but so much the longer sleep.