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They cursed us, living without laws!
They, in their pride of peace:
Nor grieved, that war should cease.
O spirit of the steel!
But challenged with a peal.
And, when the battle blood had poured
To slake our souls' desire:
Beside the pinewood fire!
My brothers, whom in warrior wise
The death of deaths hath stilled!
Lionel Johnson (1867–1902)
I ROSE up when the battle was dead,
I, the most wounded man of us all!
Over the waste one name I call.
Thou whose strength was an oak that branched,
Thou whose voice was a fire that burned, Thine the face that the fighting blanched,
Thine the heart that the tumult turned! Had I, beloved, when swords swept measure,
Had I but reached thee, and slain thee then: Then in thy death had my soul found pleasure,
Counting thee dead as a man with men.
Then with the peace, when the fight was ended,
Men would have asked, and I would have said, “Yonder he lies whom once I befriended,
Sharing his rest in the ranks of the dead.”
Ghosts of the riders, ghosts of the ridden,
Here keep tryst for the loves that died; Thou alone of all loves art hidden,
Never again to be near my side.
I rise up, and a sword is mine!
Ever my soul makes haste for thine.
Though thou lurk in the caverns beneath,
Though thou crouch by the moaning sea, I am a sword that leaps to its sheath,
Never at rest till I find out thee!
Oh, poor soul, all the night unstanched,
Poor heart, couched in a shameful breast, Thou, whose face at the fighting blanched, Out of the battle I bring thee-rest.
Laurence Housman (1867
To praise the generous, is to think of thee.
“Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The man
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
“Gifts!” cried the friend; he took, and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffàr!”
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)
IF thou shouldst bid thy friend farewell,
But for one night though that farewell may be, Press thou his hand in thine; thou canst not tell
How far from thee
Fate or caprice may lead his feet
Ere that to-morrow come. Men have been known Lightly to turn the corner of a street,
And days have grown
To months, and months to lagging years,
Before they look on loving eyes again. Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears,
With tears and pain,
Therefore, lest sudden death should come between,
Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure true
Fate goeth too!
Some earnest word betwixt the idle talk,
Mary Evelyn Moore Davis (1852–1909)
TO A FRIEND WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills,
The need of human love we little noted:
Our love was nature; and the peace that floated
One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,
That, wisely doting, asked not why it doted, And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. But now I find how dear thou wert to me;
That man is more than half of nature's treasure, Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,
Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;
And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, The hills sleep on in their eternity.
Hartley Coleridge (1796–1849) “FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER” FAREWELL!—but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. His griefs may return, -not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you! And still on that evening, when Pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Thomas Moore (1779-1852]
From “ Song of the Dawn”
AWAKE! awake! the stars are pale, the east is russet gray; They fade, behold the phantoms fade, that keep the gates of
Day; Throw wide the burning valves, and let the golden streets be
free, The morning watch is past-the watch of evening shall not
Put off, put off your mail, ye kings, and beat your brands
to dust; A surer grasp your hands must know, your hearts a better
trust; Nay, bend aback the lance's point, and break the helmet
bar,A noise is on the morning winds; but not the noise of war!
For aye, the time of wrath is past, and near the time of rest, And honor binds the brow of man, and faithfulness his
breast, Behold, the time of wrath is past, and righteousness shall be, And the Wolf is dead in Arcady and the Dragon in the sea!
John Ruskin (1819-1900)