Have ye not heard it, far and nigh, The voice of France across the dark, Beating the shores of Europe?-hark! Tell us He lived and died in vain. Say that we dream! Our dreams have woven The lightnings, that we dreamed, have cloven Outside the world's great commonweal. Tell us that custom, sloth and fear Are strong, then name them " common sense"! Tell us that greed rules everywhere, Then dub the lie "experience." Year after year, age after age, Has handed down, through fool and child, For earth's divinest heritage The dreams whereon old wisdom smiled. Dreams are they? But ye cannot stay them, Strive, if ye will, to seal the fountains That send the spring through leaf and spray; Drive back the sun from the eastern mountains, Then-bid this mightier movement stay. The hour of Peace is come! The nations Here on this height-still to aspire, One only path remains untrod, One path of love and peace climbs higher! Make straight that highway for our God!" Alfred Noyes [1880 THE ONLY SON O BITTER wind toward the sunset blowing, In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, "In the great window as the day was dwindling I saw an old man stand; His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling, But the list shook in his hand." O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered, No sound of joy or wail? "A great fight and a good death,' he muttered; Trust him, he would not fail."" What of the chamber dark where she was lying For whom all life is done? "Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying 'My son, my little son.'' Henry Newbolt [1862 POEMS OF HISTORY THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB [710 B. C.] THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, And there lay the rider distorted and pale, And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR [538 B. C.] THE King was on his throne, The godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, And wrote as if on sand: Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill; And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw, but knew no more. A captive in the land, "Belshazzar's grave is made, The Persian on his throne!" George Gordon Byron [1788–1824] HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE [c. 496 B. C.] LARS PORSENA of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore To summon his array. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan |