St. Patrick’s Purgatory
by Robert Southey (1774-1843)

                        1.

“Enter, Sir Knight,” the Warden cried,
“And trust in Heaven, whate’er betide,
      Since you have reach’d this bourn;
But first receive refreshment due;
‘Twill then be time to welcome you
      If ever you return.”

                        2.

Three sops were brought of bread and wine;
Well might Sir Owen then divine
      The mystic warning given,
That he against our ghostly Foe
Must soon to mortal combat go,
      And put his trust in Heaven.

                        3.

Sir Owen pass’d the convent gate;
The warden him conducted straight
      To where a coffin lay;
The Monks around in silence stand,
Each with a funeral torch in hand,
      Whose light bedimm’d the day.

                        4.

“Few Pilgrims ever reach this bourn,”
They said, “but fewer still return;
      Yet, let what will ensue,
Our duties are prescribed and clear;
Put off all mortal weakness here;
      This coffin is for you.

                        5.

“Lie there, while we, with pious breath,
Raise over you the dirge of death;
      This comfort we can give;
Belike no living hands may pay
This office to your lifeless clay;
      Receive it while you live!”

                        6.

Sir Owen in a shroud was dress’d,
They placed a cross upon his breast,
      And down he laid his head;
Around him stood the funeral train,
And sung, with slow and solemn strain,
      The Service of the Dead.

                        7.

Then to the entrance of the Cave
They led the Christian warrior brave;
      Some fear he well might feel,
For none of all the Monks could tell
The terrors of that mystic tell,
      Its secrets none reveal.

Continue reading …

Views: 66

“Adde manus in vincla meas”
Amores, Book I, 7
by Publius Ovidius Naso (43 BCE-17 CE)

Adde manus in vincla meas—meruere catenas—
      dum furor omnis abit, siquis amicus ades!
nam furor in dominam temeraria bracchia movit;
      flet mea vaesana laesa puella manu.
tunc ego vel caros potui violare parentes
      saeva vel in sanctos verbera ferre deos!
Quid? non et clipei dominus septemplicis Aiax
      stravit deprensos lata per arva greges,
et, vindex in matre patris, malus ultor, Orestes
      ausus in arcanas poscere tela deas?
ergo ego digestos potui laniare capillos?
      nec dominam motae dedecuere comae.
sic formosa fuit. talem Schoeneida dicam
      Maenalias arcu sollicitasse feras;
talis periuri promissaque velaque Thesei
      flevit praecipites Cressa tulisse Notos;
sic, nisi vittatis quod erat Cassandra capillis,
      procubuit templo, casta Minerva, tuo.
Quis mihi non ‘demens!’ quis non mihi ‘barbare!’ dixit?
      ipsa nihil; pavido est lingua retenta metu.
sed taciti fecere tamen convicia vultus;
      egit me lacrimis ore silente reum.
ante meos umeris vellem cecidisse lacertos;
      utiliter potui parte carere mei.
in mea vaesanas habui dispendia vires
      et valui poenam fortis in ipse meam.
quid mihi vobiscum, caedis scelerumque ministrae?
      debita sacrilegae vincla subite manus!
an, si pulsassem minimum de plebe Quiritem,
      plecterer—in dominam ius mihi maius erit?
pessima Tydides scelerum monimenta reliquit.
      ille deam primus perculit—alter ego!
et minus ille nocens. mihi, quam profitebar amare
      laesa est; Tydides saevus in hoste fuit.
I nunc, magnificos victor molire triumphos,
      cinge comam lauro votaque redde Iovi,
quaeque tuos currus comitantum turba sequetur,
      clamet ‘io! forti victa puella viro est!’
ante eat effuso tristis captiva capillo,
      si sinerent laesae, candida tota, genae.
aptius impressis fuerat livere labellis
      et collum blandi dentis habere notam.
denique, si tumidi ritu torrentis agebar,
      caecaque me praedam fecerat ira suam,
nonne satis fuerat timidae inclamasse puellae,
      nec nimium rigidas intonuisse minas,
aut tunicam a summa diducere turpiter ora
      ad mediam?—mediae zona tulisset opem.
At nunc sustinui raptis a fronte capillis
      ferreus ingenuas ungue notare genas.
adstitit illa amens albo et sine sanguine vultu,
      caeduntur Pariis qualia saxa iugis.
exanimis artus et membra trementia vidi—
      ut cum populeas ventilat aura comas,
ut leni Zephyro gracilis vibratur harundo,
      summave cum tepido stringitur unda Noto;
suspensaeque diu lacrimae fluxere per ora,
      qualiter abiecta de nive manat aqua.
tunc ego me primum coepi sentire nocentem—
      sanguis erant lacrimae, quas dabat illa, meus.
ter tamen ante pedes volui procumbere supplex;
      ter formidatas reppulit illa manus.
At tu ne dubita—minuet vindicta dolorem—
      protinus in vultus unguibus ire meos.
nec nostris oculis nec nostris parce capillis:
      quamlibet infirmas adiuvat ira manus;
neve mei sceleris tam tristia signa supersint,
      pone recompositas in statione comas!

Views: 31

Ще не вмерла Украіна
by Pavlo Chubynsky (1839-1834)
Written in 1862, this poem was revised in 2003 and declared Ukraine’s national anthem

Ще не вмерла Украіна,
И слава, и воля!
Ще намъ, браття-молодці,
Усміхнетця доля!
Згинуть наші вороги,
Якъ роса на сонці;
Запануємъ, браття, й ми
У своій сторонці.
      Душу, тіло ми положимъ
      За свою свободу
      И покажемъ, що ми браття
      Козацького роду.
      Гей-гей, браття миле,
      Нумо братися за діло!
      Гей-гей пора встати,
      Пора волю добувати!
Наливайко, Залізнякъ
И Тарасъ Трясило
Кличуть насъ изь-за могилъ
На святеє діло.
Изгадаймо славну смерть
Лицарства-козацтва,
Щобъ не втратить марне намъ
Своєго юнацтва.
      Душу, тіло и д.
Ой Богдане, Богдане,
Славний нашъ гетьмане!
На-що віддавъ Украіну
Москалямъ поганимъ?!
Щобъ вернути іі честь,
Ляжемъ головами,
Назовемся Украіни
Вірними синами!
      Душу, тіло и д.
Наші бряття Славяне
Вже за зброю взялись;
Не діжде ніхто, щобъ ми
По-заду зістались.
Поєднаймось разомъ всі,
Братчики-Славяне:
Нехай гинуть вороги,
Най воля настане!
      Душу тіло и д.

Views: 36

Spring Offensive
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease;
And, finding comfortable chests and knees,
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
And though the summer oozed into their veins
Like an injected drug for their bones’ pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky’s mysterious glass.

after hour they ponder the warm field—
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,
Where even the little brambles would not yield,
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;
They breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrills the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste—
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun,—
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell’s upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world’s verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence’ brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink,
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames—
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder—
Why speak not they of comrades that went under?

Views: 41

The Minstrel Boy
by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
This is a mainstay of the Irish musical tradition and has been recorded many times, e.g., by Tommy Makem, John McCormack, and Roger Whittaker,

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
      In the ranks of death you find him
His father’s sword he has girded on,
      And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of song” said the warrior bard,
      “Tho all the world betrayd thee,
One sword, at least thy rights shall guard,
      One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

The minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain
      Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov’d never spoke again
      For he tore its chords asunder;
And said: “No chains shall sully thee,
      Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and the free
      They shall never sound in slavery.”

Views: 34

Homo Sum
by Sully Prudhomme (1839-1907)

Durant que je vivais, ainsi qu’en plein désert,
Dans le rêve, insultant la race qui travaille,
Comme un lâche ouvrier ne faisant rien qui vaille
S’enivre et ne sait plus à quoi l’outil lui sert,

Un soupir, né du mal autour de moi souffert,
M’est venu des cités et des champs de bataille,
Poussé par l’orphelin, le pauvre sur la paille,
Et le soldat tombé qui sent son cœur ouvert.

Ah! parmi les douleurs, qui dresse en paix sa tente,
D’un bonheur sans rayons jouit et se contente,
Stoïque impitoyable en sa sérénité?

Je ne puis: ce soupir m’obsède comme un blâme,
Quelque chose de l’homme a traversé mon âme,
Et j’ai tous les soucis de la fraternité.

Views: 46

“O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth”
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
From Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 2
Because it’s the Ides of March

O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers;
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man⁠
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,—
Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips,⁠
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,—
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;⁠
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter’d with the hands of war,—
All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds;⁠
And Cæsar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war;⁠
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Views: 48

Le Saut du Tremplin
by Théodore du Banville (1823-1891)

Clown admirable, en vérité!
Je crois que la postérité,
Dont sans cesse l’horizon bouge,
Le reverra, sa plaie au flanc.
Il était barbouillé de blanc,
De jaune, de vert et de rouge.

Même jusqu’à Madagascar
Son nom était parvenu, car
C’était selon tous les principes
Qu’après les cercles de papier,
Sans jamais les estropier
Il traversait le rond des pipes.

De la pesanteur affranchi,
Sans y voir clair il eût franchi,
Les escaliers de Piranèse.
La lumière qui le frappait
Faisait resplendir son toupet
Comme un brasier dans la fournaise.

Il s’élevait à des hauteurs
Telles, que les autres sauteurs
Se consumaient en luttes vaines.
Ils le trouvaient décourageant,
Et murmuraient: “Quel vif-argent
Ce démon a-t-il dans les veines?”

Tout le peuple criait: “Bravo!”
Mais lui, par un effort nouveau,
Semblait roidir sa jambe nue,
Et, sans que l’on sût avec qui,
Cet émule de la Saqui
Parlait bas en langue inconnue.

C’était avec son cher tremplin.
Il lui disait: “Théâtre, plein
D’inspiration fantastique,
Tremplin qui tressailles d’émoi
Quand je prends un élan, fais-moi
Bondir plus haut, planche élastique!

“Frêle machine aux reins puissants,
Fais-moi bondir, moi qui me sens
Plus agile que les panthères,
Si haut que je ne puisse voir
Avec leur cruel habit noir
Ces épiciers et ces notaires!

“Par quelque prodige pompeux,
Fais-moi monter, si tu le peux,
Jusqu’à ces sommets où, sans règles,
Embrouillant les cheveux vermeils
Des planètes et des soleils,
Se croisent la foudre et les aigles.

“Jusqu’à ces éthers pleins de bruit,
Où, mêlant dans l’affreuse nuit
Leurs haleines exténuées,
Les autans ivres de courroux
Dorment, échevelés et fous,
Sur les seins pâles des nuées.

“Plus haut encor, jusqu’au ciel pur!
Jusqu’à ce lapis dont l’azur
Couvre notre prison mouvante!
Jusqu’à ces rouges Orients
Où marchent des Dieux flamboyants,
Fous de colère et d’épouvante.

“Plus loin! plus haut! je vois encor
Des boursiers à lunettes d’or,
Des critiques, des demoiselles
Et des réalistes en feu.
Plus haut! plus loin! de l’air! du bleu!
Des ailes! des ailes! des ailes!”

Enfin, de son vil échafaud,
Le clown sauta si haut, si haut,
Qu’il creva le plafond de toiles
Au son du cor et du tambour,
Et, le cœur dévoré d’amour,
Alla rouler dans les étoiles.

Views: 30

Chanson
by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux (1636-1711)

Voici les lieux charmants, où mon âme ravie
      Passait à contempler Sylvie
Ces tranquilles moments si doucement perdus.
Que je l’aimais alors! Que je la trouvais belle!
Mon cœur, vous soupirez au nom de l’infidèle:
Avez-vous oublié que vous ne l’aimez plus?

C’est ici que souvent errant dans les prairies,
      Ma main des fleurs les plus chéries
Lui faisait des présents si tendrement reçus.
Que je l’aimais alors! Que je la trouvais belle!
Mon cœur, vous soupirez au nom de l’infidèle:
Avez-vous oublié que vous ne l’aimez plus?

Views: 33

A Bergamo
by Torquato Tasso (1544-1595)

Terra che ’l Serio bagna e ’l Brembo inonda,
che monti e valli mostri a l’una mano
ed a l’altra il tuo verde e largo piano,
or ampia ed or sublime ed or profonda;
      perch’io cercassi pur di sponda in sponda
Nilo, Istro, Gange o s’altro è piú lontano,
o mar da terren chiuso o l’oceano,
che d’ogni intorno lui cinge e circonda,
      riveder non potrei parte piú cara
e gradita di te, da cui mi venne
in riva al gran Tirren famoso padre,
      che fra l’arme cantò rime leggiadre;
benché la fama tua pur si rischiara
e Si dispiega al ciel con altre penne.

Views: 33