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Started By
Message
For Veterans Day, post your favorite war poems. Somewhere over There, by The Swamp Angel
Posted on 11/11/24 at 8:28 pm
Posted on 11/11/24 at 8:28 pm
Written by the Original Swamp Angel, a Ww1 veteran
Over There -By The Swamp Angel
There were three of them trapped in an old Chateau,
Black Wolf, Terry and Dale.
And around them clamored the howling Huns,
With weapons that would not fail.
So they held each man to his vantage point,
And sent the steel in a storm.
That broke the force of the frantic rush,
And scattered the grey-green swarm.
Black Wolf, son of a Shawnee Chief,
And a bad buck Indian too.
Grinned as he ground at the Lewis gun,
While its tic-tac drilled them through.
Gone were the ways that the white man taught,
And the polish of old Carlisle.
The Indian chanted his death song high,
Then bent to his work with a smile.
A volley shattered the Lewis gun, He snatched from the ancient wall.
A battle axe of the old old days,
And met the assault in the hall.
His was a denth that the greatest Chiefs,
Might seek in a masterly pride.
For hand to hand with a pale-face foe,
He went out as Tecumseh died.
Terry, the gunman, Bowery boy,
Fresh from a stretch in the pen.
Fired through the smoke till a stricken mass,
Piled up in that Devils den.
He smashed his rifle over a head,
Then his automatic gun.
Answered his hand like a living thing
As each shot sent death to a Hun.
He had broken his word to the Warden, Yes,
and under a new coined name.
The honor man of the prison squad,
Had plunged in the mightest game.
His hand was red, his heart was black,
At least so the record said.
But the ledger balanced, and all was square,
As the boy pitched foward dead.
Then the Citified fastidious Dale,
At bay on a winding stair.
Drove back the press of the foremost foes,
And fought like a grizzly bear.
They rushed in pell mell, fury up, And his bullets dropped them back.
Till the stairways length was filled and chocked,
In a red and hideous wrack
They grappled him and
dragged him down,
As he strove beneath
their feet.
His dulling ears heard distant sound
And a bugle called retreat.
shouts,
And the Huns gave way, they steggered out,
They fled from the iron will.
of the dead men three who had held them hard,
Till the flag came over the hill.
I feel privileged to have had this one shared with me.
What are some of your faves?
Over There -By The Swamp Angel
There were three of them trapped in an old Chateau,
Black Wolf, Terry and Dale.
And around them clamored the howling Huns,
With weapons that would not fail.
So they held each man to his vantage point,
And sent the steel in a storm.
That broke the force of the frantic rush,
And scattered the grey-green swarm.
Black Wolf, son of a Shawnee Chief,
And a bad buck Indian too.
Grinned as he ground at the Lewis gun,
While its tic-tac drilled them through.
Gone were the ways that the white man taught,
And the polish of old Carlisle.
The Indian chanted his death song high,
Then bent to his work with a smile.
A volley shattered the Lewis gun, He snatched from the ancient wall.
A battle axe of the old old days,
And met the assault in the hall.
His was a denth that the greatest Chiefs,
Might seek in a masterly pride.
For hand to hand with a pale-face foe,
He went out as Tecumseh died.
Terry, the gunman, Bowery boy,
Fresh from a stretch in the pen.
Fired through the smoke till a stricken mass,
Piled up in that Devils den.
He smashed his rifle over a head,
Then his automatic gun.
Answered his hand like a living thing
As each shot sent death to a Hun.
He had broken his word to the Warden, Yes,
and under a new coined name.
The honor man of the prison squad,
Had plunged in the mightest game.
His hand was red, his heart was black,
At least so the record said.
But the ledger balanced, and all was square,
As the boy pitched foward dead.
Then the Citified fastidious Dale,
At bay on a winding stair.
Drove back the press of the foremost foes,
And fought like a grizzly bear.
They rushed in pell mell, fury up, And his bullets dropped them back.
Till the stairways length was filled and chocked,
In a red and hideous wrack
They grappled him and
dragged him down,
As he strove beneath
their feet.
His dulling ears heard distant sound
And a bugle called retreat.
shouts,
And the Huns gave way, they steggered out,
They fled from the iron will.
of the dead men three who had held them hard,
Till the flag came over the hill.
I feel privileged to have had this one shared with me.
What are some of your faves?
12
Posted on 11/11/24 at 8:41 pm to fr33manator
Son's coming home in a body bag!
Doo Daa! Doo Daaa!
Son's coming home in a body bag!
Oh a Doo Daa Day!
Motherfrickerss die!
Shot him in the head!
Son's coming home in a body bag!
Oh a Doo Daa Day!
Doo Daa! Doo Daaa!
Son's coming home in a body bag!
Oh a Doo Daa Day!
Motherfrickerss die!
Shot him in the head!
Son's coming home in a body bag!
Oh a Doo Daa Day!
This post was edited on 11/11/24 at 8:42 pm
Posted on 11/11/24 at 8:43 pm to fr33manator
It got real…..real fast
Posted on 11/11/24 at 8:44 pm to fr33manator
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 9:06 pm to fr33manator
Many thanks for that memory, fr33. I have a trip scheduled to Montana in a couple weeks and when I return I think it will have come time to unpack the moving boxes and dig through the ol' Swamp Angel's poems and prose from his days upon the earth between 1901 and 1960. Aunt Jane is the only family member alive who knew him (her father) and she's eighty-seven. I need to pay a visit to her in Mississippi before I lose that opportunity forever.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 9:28 pm to Swamp Angel
And yes, collect whatever of her stories of him you can. He's a luminary in my eye. I can't wait to see what else he did.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 9:33 pm to fr33manator
Don't get overly excited yet. Most of it is about traipsing through swamps in search of good timber or about major league baseball (particularly his beloved Saint Louis Browns).
You'll be the first to get copies.
You'll be the first to get copies.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 9:53 pm to fr33manator
Not a poem but perhaps the greatest speech by one of our greatest presidents, remaining inspirational though spoken forty years ago this year. Sixty-two of the "boys" were in attendance; excerpts below.
"Forty years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and . . . was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon, Reagan said.
Free nations had fallen. Jews cried out in the camps. Millions cried out for liberation. Europe was enslaved and the world prayed for its rescue.
Here . . . the rescue began.
Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs, he said, glancing over his shoulder. And before me are the men who put them there.
These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc.
These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.
Strengthened by their courage, heartened by their valor, and borne by their memory, let us continue to stand for the ideals for which they lived and died.”
The Boys of Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, June 6th 1944.
"Forty years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and . . . was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon, Reagan said.
Free nations had fallen. Jews cried out in the camps. Millions cried out for liberation. Europe was enslaved and the world prayed for its rescue.
Here . . . the rescue began.
Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs, he said, glancing over his shoulder. And before me are the men who put them there.
These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc.
These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.
Strengthened by their courage, heartened by their valor, and borne by their memory, let us continue to stand for the ideals for which they lived and died.”
The Boys of Pointe du Hoc, Normandy, June 6th 1944.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 10:28 pm to fr33manator
This is my rifle.
This is my gun.
One is for killing.
The others for fun.
This is my gun.
One is for killing.
The others for fun.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 10:31 pm to fr33manator
Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen
1893 – 4 Nov 1918
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
1893 – 4 Nov 1918
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Posted on 11/11/24 at 10:49 pm to fr33manator
in the words of a comanche chief
"the goal is not to win, the goal is to make your enemy to never want to face you or yours again"
"the goal is not to win, the goal is to make your enemy to never want to face you or yours again"
Posted on 11/12/24 at 4:39 am to fr33manator
Rudyard Kipling
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
Posted on 11/12/24 at 6:23 am to fr33manator
It's not strictly speaking a poem, but a passage from Fitzgerald's "Tender is the Night". Dan Carlin uses it in his WWI series, Blueprint for Armageddon. It is a soldier reminiscing about the Western Front, but it does read almost like an open verse poem:
"This western-front business couldn’t be done again, not for a long time. The young men think they could do it but they couldn’t. They could fight the first Marne again but not this. This took religion and years of plenty and tremendous sureties and the exact relation that existed between the classes. The Russians and Italians weren’t any good on this front. You had to have a whole-souled sentimental equipment going back further than you could remember. You had to remember Christmas, and postcards of the Crown Prince and his fiancée, and little cafés in Valence and beer gardens in Unter den Linden and weddings at the mairie, and going to the Derby, and your grandfather’s whiskers.”
“General Grant invented this kind of battle at Petersburg in sixty- five.”
“No, he didn’t — he just invented mass butchery. This kind of battle was invented by Lewis Carroll and Jules Verne and whoever wrote Undine, and country deacons bowling and marraines in Marseilles and girls seduced in the back lanes of Wurtemburg and Westphalia. Why, this was a love battle — there was a century of middle-class love spent here. This was the last love battle.”
"This western-front business couldn’t be done again, not for a long time. The young men think they could do it but they couldn’t. They could fight the first Marne again but not this. This took religion and years of plenty and tremendous sureties and the exact relation that existed between the classes. The Russians and Italians weren’t any good on this front. You had to have a whole-souled sentimental equipment going back further than you could remember. You had to remember Christmas, and postcards of the Crown Prince and his fiancée, and little cafés in Valence and beer gardens in Unter den Linden and weddings at the mairie, and going to the Derby, and your grandfather’s whiskers.”
“General Grant invented this kind of battle at Petersburg in sixty- five.”
“No, he didn’t — he just invented mass butchery. This kind of battle was invented by Lewis Carroll and Jules Verne and whoever wrote Undine, and country deacons bowling and marraines in Marseilles and girls seduced in the back lanes of Wurtemburg and Westphalia. Why, this was a love battle — there was a century of middle-class love spent here. This was the last love battle.”
Posted on 11/12/24 at 6:41 am to fr33manator
Not a poem- but The War Prayer by Mark Twain
Posted on 11/12/24 at 8:19 am to Ace Midnight
Great quote. And yeah it is like long form poetry.
I always love this piece from Rudyard Kipling sung by Jim Croce
I always love this piece from Rudyard Kipling sung by Jim Croce
Posted on 11/12/24 at 8:44 am to fr33manator
For the Fallen
By Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
By Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Posted on 11/12/24 at 8:44 am to PJinAtl
Bivouac of the Dead
Theodore O'Hara
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
Theodore O'Hara
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
Posted on 11/12/24 at 9:39 am to fr33manator
Concord Hymn by Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept;
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept;
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
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