En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Upon The Same Event

WHEN, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings past of servitude repealed,
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn.
''Tis known,' cried they, 'that he, who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows.--Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon,
Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top.'

poem by William Wordsworth
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The Irish Peasant to his Mistress

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Then wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail --
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains --
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains --
Oh! foul is the slander -- no chain could that soul subdue --
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!

poem by Thomas Moore
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On A Celebrated Event In Ancient History

A ROMAN Master stands on Grecian ground,
And to the people at the Isthmian Games
Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims
THE LIBERTY OF GREECE:--the words rebound
Until all voices in one voice are drowned;
Glad acclamation by which air was rent!
And birds, high-flying in the element,
Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound!
Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still that voice
Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's ear:
Ah! that a 'Conqueror's' words should be so dear:
Ah! that a 'boon' could shed such rapturous joys!
A gift of that which is not to be given
By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven.

poem by William Wordsworth
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Song

WHEN the warrior returns, from the battle afar,
To the home and the country he nobly defended,
O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended:
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Columbians! a band of your brothers behold,
Who claim the reward of your hearts' warm emotion,
When your cause, when your honor, urged onward the bold,
In vain frowned the desert, in vain raged the ocean:
To a far distant shore, to the battle's wild roar,
They rushed, your fair fame and your rights to secure:
Then, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

In the conflict resistless, each toil they endured,
'Till their foes fled dismayed from the war's desolation:
And pale beamed the Crescent, its splendor obscured
By the light of the Star Spangled flag of our nation.
Where each radiant star gleamed a meteor of war,
And the turbaned heads bowed to its terrible glare,
Now, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Our fathers, who stand on the summit of fame,
Shall exultingly hear of their sons the proud story:
How their young bosoms glow'd with the patriot flame,
How they fought, how they fell, in the blaze of their glory.
How triumphant they rode o'er the wondering flood,
And stained the blue waters with infidel blood;
How, mixed with the olive, the laurel did wave,
And formed a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Then welcome the warrior returned from afar
To the home and the country he nobly defended:
Let the thanks due to valor now gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended.
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

poem by Francis Scott Key
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The Old Maid's Story

Ay, many and many a year's gone by,
Since the dawn of that day in spring,
When we met in the pine-woods, Harry and I,
And he gave me this golden ring.
I had lovers in plenty, of high degree,
Who wooed in my father's hall;
But none were so noble and brave as he,
Though he was the scorn'd of all.
On the soft, green grass, where the shadows lay,
All fleck'd with the sun and dew,
With a ring and a kiss did we seal, that day,
Our vow to be leal and true.

'Twas a life-long vow;—but they did not know—
And they thought not of love or pain;—
We met just once in the sleet and snow—
We were never to meet again!
He was sent away o'er the blank, wide sea,
And I, with my hopes and fears,
Had never a message to comfort me
For over a score of years.
They laugh'd at my heart, they paraded my hand,
But I answer'd them, cold and grim—
“If Harry ne'er comes to his native land,
They shall only belong to him.”

At last came a tale from the battle-field;—
And they were not scornful now.
The sentence of exile might be repealed—
They would honour our plighted vow!
They told how my Harry, like olden knights,
Had fought for his land and Queen;
Fought hard and well on the Alma heights,
Where the deadliest strife was seen.
They told how he fell in the fire and smoke,
And they gave me his things to keep;
They wonder'd why I never cried or spoke,—
But it was too late to weep.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Contentment

Happy the man that, when his day is done,
Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret--
The battle he has fought may not be won--
The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;
Folding at last his hands upon his breast,
Happy is he, if hoary and forespent,
He sinks into the last, eternal rest,
Breathing these only works: 'I am content.'

But happier he, that, while his blood is warm,
See hopes and friendships dead about him lie--
Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm,
Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny;
And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate,
Girt only in the armor God hath meant
For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate
Can say to God and man: 'I am content.'

poem by Eugene Field
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The Oak And Its Branches.

An Oak, with spreading Branches crown'd,
Beheld an Ivy on the Ground,
Expos'd to ev'ry trampling Beast,
That roam'd around the dreary Waste.
The Tree of Jove, in all his State,
With Pity view'd the Ivy's Fate;
And kindly told her, She should find
Security around his Rind:
Nor was that only his Intent,
But to bestow some Nourishment.

The Branches saw, and griev'd to see
Some Juices taken from the Tree.
Parent, say they, in angry Tone,
Your Sap should nourish us alone:
Why should you nurse this Stranger Plant,
With what your Sons, in time, may want;
May want, to raise us high in Air,
And make us more distinguish'd there.

'Tis well -- the Parent--Tree reply'd;
Must I, to gratify your Pride,
Act only with a narrow View
Of doing Good to none but you?
Know, Sons, tho' Jove hath made me great,
I am not safe from Storms of Fate.
Is it not prudent then, I pray,
To guard against another Day?
Whilst I'm alive, You crown my Head;
This graces me alive, and dead.

poem by Mary Barber
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God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

God rest ye merry gentlemen,
let nothing you dismay
Remember Christ our Savior
was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
when we were gone astray
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
In Bethlehem, in Jewry,
this blessed babe was born
And laid within a manger,
upon a Christmas morn'
That which his mother Mary
did nothing take in scorn
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,
comfort and joy
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
>From God, our heavenly father,
a blessed angel came
And unto certain shepherds brought
tidings of the same
How that in Bethlehem was born
the son of God by name
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy,
comfort and joy
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy

song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Horace I: 34

I, who kicked against the goad,
impiety, vain sophistry leave now,
vow to fear God and coming hard a-
bout now steer my little boat to

ports of righteousness; for today
Jove, making him honors of man's amaze,
through a sky of peerless blue his horses
drove from the murk of no piled thunderhead;

such that dull earth shook and brooks
shook in their beds; as Tantalus across the
gulf probably shook and Styx beyond earth and
the sea even to skyfall, past the pillars of Hercules.

Nothing is impossible so God wills:
His wonders multiply. He nods
and Fortunes tinkling fingers wisk
her coveted crown from that head to this.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Burial of Sarah

He stood before the sons of Heth,
And bowed his sorrowing head;
"I've come," he said, "to buy a place
Where I may lay my dead.

"I am a stranger in your land,
My home has lost its light;
Grant me a place where I may lay
My dead away from sight."

Then tenderly the sons of Heth
Gazed on the mourner's face,
And said, "Oh, Prince, amid our dead,
Choose thou her resting-place.

"The sepulchres of those we love,
We place at thy command;
Against the plea thy grief hath made
We close not heart nor hand."

The patriarch rose and bowed his head,
And said, "One place I crave;
'Tis at the end of Ephron's field,
And called Machpelah's cave.

"Entreat him that he sell to me
For her last sleep that cave;
I do not ask for her I loved
The freedom of a grave."

The son of Zohar answered him,
"Hearken, my lord, to me;
Before our sons, the field and cave
I freely give to thee."

"I will not take it as a gift,"
The grand old man then said;
"I pray thee let me buy the place
Where I may lay my dead."

And with the promise in his heart,
His seed should own that land,
He gave the shekels for the field
He took from Ephron's hand.

And saw afar the glorious day
His chosen seed should tread,
The soil where he in sorrow lay
His loved and cherished dead.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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War-Song Of The Spanish Patriots

YE who burn with glory's flame!
Ye who love the Patriot's fame;
Ye who scorn oppressive might,
Rise! in freedom's cause unite;
Castilians rise!
Hark! Iberia calls, ye brave!
Haste! your bleeding country save:
Be the palm of bright renown,
Be th' unfading laurel-crown,
The hero's prize!

High the crimson banner wave!
Ours be conquest or the grave!
Spirits of our noble sires,
Lo! your sons, with kindred fires,
Unconquer'd glow!

See them once again advance,
Crush the pride of hostile France;
See their hearts, with ardor warm,
See them, with triumphant arm,
Repel the foe!

By the Cid's immortal name,
By Gonsalvo's deathless fame;
By the chiefs of former time,
By the valiant deeds sublime,
Of ancient days;
Brave Castilians! grasp the spear!
Gallant Andalusians, hear!
Glory calls you to the plain,
Future bards, in lofty strain,
Shall sing your praise!

Shades of mighty warriors dead,
Ye who nobly fought and bled;

Ye whose valor could withstand,
The savage Moor's invading band
Untaught to yield;
Bade victorious Charlemagne,
Own the patriot-arms of Spain;
Ye, in later times renown'd,
Ye who fell with laurels crown'd,
On Pavia's field!

Teach our hearts like yours to burn;
Lawless pow'r like you to spurn;
Teach us but like you to wield,
Freedom's lance and Freedom's shield
With daring might:
Tyrant! soon thy reign is o'er,
Thou shalt waste mankind no more;
Boast no more thy thousands slain,
Jena's, or Marengo's plain;
Lo! the sun that gilds thy day,
Soon will veil its parting ray,
In endless night!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Birthday Wreath

Blossom and greenness, making all
The winter birthday tropical,
And the plain Quaker parlors gay,
Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall;
We saw them fade, and droop, and fall,
And laid them tenderly away.

White virgin lilies, mignonette,
Blown rose, and pink, and violet,
A breath of fragrance passing by;
Visions of beauty and decay,
Colors and shapes that could not stay,
The fairest, sweetest, first to die.

But still this rustic wreath of mine,
Of acorned oak and needled pine,
And lighter growths of forest lands,
Woven and wound with careful pains,
And tender thoughts, and prayers, remains,
As when it dropped from love's dear hands.

And not unfitly garlanded,
Is he, who, country-born and bred,
Welcomes the sylvan ring which gives
A feeling of old summer days,
The wild delight of woodland ways,
The glory of the autumn leaves.

And, if the flowery meed of song
To other bards may well belong,
Be his, who from the farm-field spoke
A word for Freedom when her need
Was not of dulcimer and reed.
This Isthmian wreath of pine and oak.

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Hymn 27

Assurance of heaven.

2 Tim. 4:68,18.

[Death may dissolve my body now,
And bear my spirit home;
Why do my minutes move so slow,
Nor my salvation come?

With heav'nly weapons I have fought
The battles of the Lord;
Finished my course, and kept the faith,
And wait the sure reward.]

God has laid up in heav'n for me
A crown which cannot fade;
The righteous Judge at that great day
Shall place it on my head.

Nor hath the King of grace decreed
This prize for me alone;
But all that love and long to see
Th' appearance of his Son.

Jesus the Lord shall guard me safe
From every ill design;
And to his heav'nly kingdom keep
This feeble soul of mine.

God is my everlasting aid,
And hell shall rage in vain;
To him be highest glory paid
And endless praise--Amen.

poem by Isaac Watts
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On The World

WITH a whirl of thoughts oppress’d,
I sunk from reverie to rest.
A horrid vision seized my head,
I saw the graves give up their dead!
Jove, arm’d with terrors, bursts the skies,
And thunder roars and lightning flies!
Amazed, confused, its fate unknown,
The world stands trembling at his throne!
While each pale sinner hung his head,
Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said:
“Offending race of human kind,
By nature, reason, learning, blind;
You who, through frailty, stepp’d aside;
And you, who never fell from pride:
You who in different sects were shamm’d,
And come to see each other damn’d;
(So some folk told you, but they knew
No more of Jove’s designs than you
—The world’s mad business now is o’er,
And I resent these pranks no more.
—I to such blockheads set my wit!
I damn such fools!—Go, go, you’re bit.”

poem by Jonathan Swift
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God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman

God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
In Bethlehem, in Israel,
This blessed Babe was born
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn
The which His Mother Mary
Did nothing take in scorn
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed Angel came;
And unto certain Shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by Name.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
"Fear not then," said the Angel,
"Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of a pure Virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might."
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm and wind:
And went to Bethlehem straightway
The Son of God to find.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
And when they came to Bethlehem
Where our dear Saviour lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay;
His Mother Mary kneeling down,
Unto the Lord did pray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood-aca

song performed by by Carly Simon
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Gaia Forgives

Gives suckle to all that lives
In spite of wicked men forgives
Praise Gaia this summer's morn
Gold crown upon her head adorn

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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Centennial

Come all ye friends of Liberty,
Who love our good old nation,
Let hands and hearts united be,
And beat the wide creation.
For this is our Centennial year,
The birthday of our nation;
For it is just one hundred years
That's stood our good old nation.

CHORUS:

Centennial! Centennial!
Hurrah to the Centennial;
And many, many people gone
To our national Centennial.

To Philadelphia people went,
And more was sure to go, sir;
They say there was things to be seen
Of a hundred years ago, sir.
Come all ye sons of liberty,
That love our good old nation,
Unite and keep our country free,
And the stars and stripes a waving.

The revolutionary war was fought
To gain our independence,
That we a nation great may be,
Both free and independent.
They fought the British, far and near,
For freedom, and they gained it --
In Centennial years of Jubilee,
Let Columbia's sons maintain it.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Son of a Fool

Gyved and chained in his father's home,
He toiled 'neath a conqueror's rule;
Bowed to the earth in the land of his birth;
The Slave who was Son of a Fool.

Poor remnant he of a conquered race,
Long shorn of its power and pride,
No reverence shone in his sullen face
When they told how that race had died.
But the meed that he gave to his father's name
Was a down-drooped head and a flush of shame.

Burned in his brain was the pitiful tale
Of a sabre too late unsheathed;
Deep in his heart lay the poisoned dart
Of the shame that his sire bequeathed:
The searing shame of a laggard life,
Of an arm too weak in the hour of strife.

Oh, the Fool had reigned full many a year
In the Land of the Bounteous Gifts,
Dreaming and drifting, with never a fear,
As a doomed fool pleasantly drifts;
And he ate his fill of the gifts she gave
The Fool who was sire of a hopeless Slave.

Through years of plenty and years of peace
he lolled in the pleasing shade,
Marking his flocks and his herds increase,
Watching his waxing trade;
And he smiled when he heard of the old world's wars,
With never a care for his own rich stores.

Year by year as his harvest grew,
He gleaned with a lightsome heart;
His barns he filled, and he sowed and tilled,
Trading in port and mart.
Proud of his prowess in psort and trade
Was the Fool, who scoffed at an alien raid.

Little he recked of the gathering cloud
That boded a swift disgrace.
Was he not seed of a manly breed,
Proud son of a warlike race?
And he told of the deeds that his sires had done
While he wielded a bat in the place of a gun.

Small were his fears in the rich fat years,
Loud was his laugh of scorn
When they whispered low of a watching foe,
Greedy for gold and corn;
A foe grown jealous of trade an pow'r,
Marking the teasure, and waiting the hour.

'Twas a cheerful Fool, but a Fool foredoomed
Gazed out on a clear spring morn;
And his eye ranged wide o'er the countryside,
With its treasures, its kine and corn.
And, 'Mine, all mine!' said the prosperous Fool.
'And it never shall pass to an alien rule!'

And, e'en when the smoke of the raiders' ships
Trailed out o'er the northern skies,
His laugh was loud: ''Tis a summer cloud,'
Said the Fool in his Paradise.
And, to guard his honor, he gave a gun
To the feeble hands of his younger son.

Oh, a startled Fool, and a Fool in haste
Awoke on a later day,
When they sped the word that a foe laid waste
His ports by the smiling bay,
And his voice was shrill as he bade his sons
Haste out to the sound of the booming guns.

He was brave, they tell, as a fool is brave,
With an oath 'tween his hard-clenched teeth,
When he found the sword that he fain would wave
Held fast in its rusty sheath;
When he learned that the hand, so skilled in play,
Was the hand of a child that fatal day.

And scarce had he raised his rallying cry,
Scarce had he called one note,
When he died, as ever a foo must die,
With his war-song still in his throat.
And an open ditch was the hasty grave
Of the Fool who fathered a hopeless Slave.

They point the moral, they tell the tale,
And the old world wags its head:
'If a Fool hath treasure, and Might prevail,
Then the Fool must die,' 'tis said.
And the end of it all is a broken gun
And the heritage gleaned by a hapless son.

Gyved and chained in his father's home,
He toiled 'neath a conqueror's rule;
While they flung in his face the taunt of his race:
A Slave and the Son of a Fool.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dunce

At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.
No envy in my heart I found,
Yet bone was worthier to own
Those precious books in vellum bound,
Than I, a dreamer and a drone.

No prize at school I ever gained
(Shirking my studies, I suppose):
Yes, I remember being caned
For lack of love of Latin prose.
For algebra I won no praise,
In grammar I was far from bright:
Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise
In me a rapture of delight!

I never gained a prize at school;
The dullard's cap adorned my head;
My masters wrote me down a fool,
And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.
I'd like to go to them and say:
"Yours is indeed a tricky trade.
My honoured classmates, where are they?
Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made."

Oh, I am old and worn and grey,
And maybe have not long to live;
Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day
At my old school the Head will give
A tome or two of mine to crown
Some pupil's well-deserved success -
Proving a scapegrace and a clown
May win at last to worthiness.

poem by Robert William Service
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Christmas Morning

The angel host that sped last night,
Bearing the wondrous news afar,
Came in their ever-glorious flight
Unto a slumbering little star.

'Awake and sing, O star!' they cried.
'Awake and glorify the morn!
Herald the tidings far and wide--
He that shall lead His flock is born!'

The little star awoke and sung
As only stars in rapture may,
And presently where church bells hung
The joyous tidings found their way.

'Awake, O bells! 't is Christmas morn--
Awake and let thy music tell
To all mankind that now is born
What Shepherd loves His lambkins well!'

Then rang the bells as fled the night
O'er dreaming land and drowsing deep,
And coming with the morning light,
They called, my child, to you asleep.

Sweetly and tenderly they spoke,
And lingering round your little bed,
Their music pleaded till you woke,
And this is what their music said:

'Awake and sing! 'tis Christmas morn,
Whereon all earth salutes her King!
In Bethlehem is the Shepherd born.
Awake, O little lamb, and sing!'

So, dear my child, kneel at my feet,
And with those voices from above
Share thou this holy time with me,
The universal hymn of love.

poem by Eugene Field
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Spanish Peasant

We have no aspiration vain
For paradise Utopian,
And here in our sun-happy Spain,
Though man exploit his fellow man,
To high constraint we humbly yield,
And turn from politics to toil,
Content to till a kindly field
And bring forth bounty from the soil.

They tell us wars will never cease;
They sy the world is out of joint.
How well we Know! But peace is peace
Even imposed at pistol point.
And we have learnt our lesson well,
By many a death, by many a tear;
So let us live a feudal spell, -
The cost of freedom is too dear.

Let us be the cattle kind,
Praying the goad be not a sword;
In servitude obeying blind
The tyrant ruling of our Lord.
His army can be swift to slay,
His Church teach us humility . . .
But never never will we pay
Again blood-price for Liberty.

poem by Robert William Service
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