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قراءة كتاب Boer War Lyrics
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sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair;
Should slaver worse, if she came of age,
With inglorious snivel wise Clio’s page:
Lest all of this, with what sousing tact
They niced her the diverse of whim and fact;
How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue,
Broke font and tablet and put her through
Such drench of penance and convert-course,
Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source:
Sure text nor ritual made never doubt,
Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout,
Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay:
For leet or laurel—let wise Time say.
* * * * * * *
Well—this was the Song of the Sorrowful True:
A rip of a Muse—but it gives her view.
Curt and clear tho’, did the touches fall,
Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole:
Are you with me still? Can you check a flout?
Then stretch a will to hear it out?
(Hour before Dawn—The Muse brooding.)
As if grim Darkness ’pon herself had bred,
To make a second and a direr gloom?
What wrestles so the advent of the Light,
Whence from yon paths the white stars tread
Should visioned peer its orient bloom?
Then urge anew against the serried Dark,
At such beseech, their silent suit?
What muttered rolls half-halting cleave
These omened airs that still hang stark,
As big with what they dare not bruit?
The eager Light. Lo, Day saddles the white Dawn,
At heel his troop, close-wheeling, spurs,
Unto his banner world-wide thrown,
Each waft, his way. Close Night unhoods;
No more beneath her grim gaze shrinks,
But featured fair, in tribute ruds
Each nether thing, and lifesome drinks.
Dim-figured tho’, what grim play breeds?
Troy’s second act? Where Hector stout, some Thetis’ son,
The deadly phalanx girds and leads?
With strumpet’s lure this sore divide?
For lo, her brow, to venal brand,
Reads fierce with lust of worldly pride!
What things o’ Night do rouse for prey,
Confound with grim and loathsome reek
The balmy breath of youngling Day?
Why drags white Peace yon gory pall?
I see great Mars in flame-knit mail,
I hear the fierce god’s buglers call.
War’s every hound is red at mouth,
No belching throat but havoc cries,
Would drench in blood the Summer’s drought.
These clamors wind no human breath,
But ghostly haunt yon winsome light
The phantom shades of legioned Death.
The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea;
All tongues at one, no witness stays,
But owns his line observantly.
Behind, before, Light’s lofty welcome burns,
Whose cheer wide-spread for Most and Least,
Repledged, alone, his host-call earns.
They spill the sweet and lifesome wine;
They fool the sense with sightless greed,
The knife their law twixt yours and mine.
And those have rid the hurly sea,
Whence towering fair great Albion stands,
His brow writ broad with Liberty;
The gracious board whose never mess
Lets these to pine, so those may cloy
And glut his maw, the Hog, Excess—
Here may her buckler rusting hang,
Where, still at beat, thro’ throbbing yores,
Oppression’s slave-blows dying rang.
As if each patient light stood mute,
May ripping talons deal the Dove
This branding scan—a prostitute!
Whose fires feed the Piaerian Spring,
If Truth for right to scoff at Wrong,
In thy fair flame a gall-nut fling!
But where is the banneret of the Free?
What fouling touch of harpy hands
Has smirched his shield and panoply?
What gross embrace for Freedom’s kiss:
These are the sheets of Abbadon,
The bastard clasp high Furies hiss!
As Phœbus spans twixt East and West?
His, not the haunts thy fortune