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| The Mulberry Tree | Voice of the Voiceless | The Rabbit |
| The Ship | Indifference | Abu Ben Adhem |
The Priest and the Mulberry Tree
by
T.L.Peacock
Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare,
And merrily trotted along to the fair?
Of creature more tractable none ever heard;
In the height of her speed she would stop at a word;
But again with a word, when the curate said "Hey",
She put forth her mettle and galloped away.
As near to the gates of the city he rode
While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed
The good priest discovered with eyes of desire,
A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild briar;
On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot,
Hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.
The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot;
He shrank from the thorns though he longed for the fruit.
With a word he arrested his coursers' keen speed
and stood up erect on the back of his steed.
On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still
And he gathered the fruit 'til he took his good fill.
"Sure never," he thought,"was creature so rare,
So docile, so true, as my excellent mare:
Lo, here now I stand," and he gazed all around,
"As safe and as steady as if on the ground;
Yet how had it been if some travellor this way
Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry "Hey!"
He stood with his head in the mulberry tree,
And he spoke out aloud in hes fond reverie,
At the sound of the word the good mare made push
And down went the priest in the wild brier bush;
He remembered, too late, on his thorny green bed,
Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said!
So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind
Is all the sad world needs.
I am the voice of the voiceless:
Through me, the dumb shall speak;
Till the deaf world's ear be made to hear
The cry of the wordless weak.
From street, from cage and from kennel,
From jungle and stall, the wail
Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin
Of the mighty against the frail.
For love is the true religion,
And love is the law sublime;
And all that is wrought, where love is not
Will die at the touch of time.
Oh, shame on the mothers of mortals
Who have not stopped to teach
Of the sorrow that lies in dear, dumb eyes,
The sorrow that has no speech.
The same Power formed the sparrow
That fashioned man - the King;
The God of the whole gave a living soul
To furred and to feathered thing.
And I am my brother's keeper,
And I will fight his fight;
And speak the word for beast and bird
Till the world shall set things right.
The Sun was falling off to sleep
Upon his clouded bed;
You seemed to see him blink his eyes
And nod his weary head;
He turned the heathland hill to gold.
And all the pines to red.
A lark was singing in the sky;
You heard it far away,
With bleatings of the folded flock
And hum of insects play,
An all those gentle things that lull
The slumber of a day.
But in the glory and the peace
That clothed the flaming heath
One sad and piteous sound was heard-
A little sobbing breath,
where wounded under bracken-fronds,
A rabbit bled to death.
"Brother", to him the great Sun called,
"With every day that dies
Ten million things that love the light
Close evermore their eyes;
You are but one who will not see
Tomorrows dawn arise."
"Monarch," replied the dying thing,
"Humble I am I know,
But I have loved this heathland hill
Where now my blood doth flow;
I feel that it were sweet to stay;
and that 'tis sad to go."
"Who knows but you may live again?"
The great Sun kindly said;
"Think on that thought, and cease with sobs
To vex my glorious bed.
If he who wounded you shall live......"
He ceased-the thing was dead.
Down sank the Sun; a silver disk
Swift o'er the heather stole,
Veil after veil the night let fall,
And silence held the whole;
The Moon came nursing in her arms
A little furry soul.
When Jesus came to Golgotha they hanged him on a tree,
They drove great nails through hands and feet and made a Calvary;
They crowned him with a crown of thorns, red were his wounds and deep,
For those were crude and cruel days and human flesh was cheap.
When Jesus came to Birmingham they simply passed him by,
They never hurt a hair of him, they only let him die;
For men had grown more tender, and they would not give him pain,
They only just passed down the street and left him in the rain.
Still Jesus cried,"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
And still it rained the wintry rain that drenched him through and through.
The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see,
And Jesus crouched against a wall and cried for Calvary.
The ship sails onward
The helmsman unknown
A new world to conquer
New seeds to be sown
In search of Apolo.
His chariot of fire
warms hearts, homes and family
and love will inspire
A star child awakens
his future uncertain
what power unleashed
as he tears down the curtain
That hides from the world
that which sets a man free
and gives him the courage
to sail on that sea
On a ship with no helmsman
yet full in the sail
direction undoubted
for the wind will not fail
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; --
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Kubla Khan
by
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Old Shellover
by
Walter De La Mare
'Come!' said Old Shellover.
'What?' says Creep.
'The horny old Gardener's fast asleep;
The fat cock Thrush
To his nest has gone;
And the dew shines bright
In the rising Moon;
Old Sallie Worm from her hole doth peep:
Come!' said Old Shellover.
'Ay!' said Creep.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold: -
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?'-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, 'The names of those that love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.'
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
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