Chapters 27
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1 01 - All Things Bright and Beautiful 1:17
All things bright and beautiful, by Cecil F. Alexander. Red for liverwax.org by Super Coconut. All things bright and beautiful, all things great and small. All things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all. Each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings. He made their glowing colors, he made their tiny wings. The purple-headed mountains, the river running by. The sunset and the morning that brightens up the sky. The cold wind in the winter, the pleasant summer sun. The ripe fruits in the garden, he made them of a one. The tall trees in the green rod, the meadow where we play. The washes by the water to gather every day. He gave us Eyes to see them, and lips that we might tell.
How great is God, O Almighty, who has made all things well.
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2 02 - A Bush Christening 2:49
A Bush Christening, by Andrew Bannon, Banjo-Person. On the outer bar coup were the judges of view, and men of origin are scanty. On a road never crossed, safe for folk that are lost, were Mike and McGee at the shanty. Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad, prompt, healthy, and sterile-conditioned, He was strong as the best, while Paul Mark had no rest, for the youngster had never been Christianed. And his wife used to cry, if the Darwin should die, St. Peter would not recognise him, but by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, and he agreed to show a way to baptise him. Then the other young rogue, where they held the collogue, where his ear to kill her was listening, and he muttered in fright, where his features turned white, what the devil in all is this Christian?
He was now a few adults. He had seen them brown coats, and it seemed to his small understanding that the men of the flock may run through the flock. It must mean something very like branding. So where the rush itself for the bush? But the tears as I will stay gristened. This is outrageous, says he. The brown clansers like me. I will be dashed if I stop to be gristened. Like a young native dog, it ran into a log. and his father with language uncivil. Never end the praised, Croneradius haste. Come on, be a Christian to you, devil. But he waved there as snug as a bug in a rug, and his parents in vain might reprove him. Till his reference spoke, he was fond of a joke. I've a notion, says he, that will move him.
Poke a steep other rug, give a soloprene a sprog. Poke him acy, don't hurt him or maim him. "'Tis not long that it will stand, I've the Lord had hand, as he rushes out to descend on Naaman. Here he goes, and for shame, you've forgotten the name, is the Patsy on Michael Dennis. Here the youngster rang out, and the priest gave a shout. "'Take a chance any'ard,' went McGuinness. As the only young cub ran away to the scrub, when he knew that pursuit would be whiskey, the priest, as he fled, From a flask in his hand, that was sold, McGinnis' Squisky. And McGinnis McGee had been made a chapea, and one thing he hates more than sinners, to be asked by the folk who had heard of the joke, how he came to be christened McGinnis.
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3 03 - The City in the Sea 3:13
The City and the Sea by Edgar Allan Poe.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne, In a strange city lying alone, Far down within the dim west, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest, Their shrines and palaces and towers, Time-eaten towers that tremble not, resemble nothing that is ours. Around by lifting winds forgot, resignedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down on the long night-time of that town, but light from out the lurid sea streams up the turret silently. Gleams up the pinnacles far and free, up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, up fanes, up Babylon-like walls, up shadowy long-forgotten bowers, of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, up many and many a marvellous shrine, whose wreathed friezes intertwine the vial, the violet, and the vine, resignedly beneath the sky.
The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there, That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. Their open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves, But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye, Not the gaily jewelled dead, tempt the waters from their bed, For no ripples curl, alas, along the wilderness of glass. No swellings tell that winds may be upon some far-off happier sea, No heavings hint that winds have been on seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave, there is a movement there, as if the towers had thrust aside, in slightly sinking the dull tide, as if their tops had feebly given, a void within the filmy heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow, the hours are breathing faint and low, and when amid no earthly moans Down, down, that town shall settle hence. Hell rising from a thousand thrones shall do it reverence.
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4 04 - Come Into the Garden, Maud 4:13
June 19, 2014. Come into the garden, Maude, for the black bat night has flown. Come into the garden, Maude. I am here at the gate alone, and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint in the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint in the light of the sun she loves, to faint in his light, and to die. All night have the roses heard, the flute, violin, bassoon. All night has the casement jessamine stirred, to the dancers dancing in tune, till a silence fell with the waking bird, and a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, there is but one with whom she is hard to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary. Of dance and play. Now half to the setting moon are gone, and half to the rising day. Low on the sand and loud on the stone, the last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, The brief night goes, and babble and revel and whine. O young lord lover, what size are those, for one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine. So I swear to the rose, for ever and ever mine. And the soul of the rose went into my blood, as the music clashed in the hall, and long by the garden lake I stood, for I heard your rivulet fall, from the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood, our wood that is dearer than all. From the meadow your walks have left so sweet, That whenever a march-wind sighs, he sets the jewel-print of your feet in violets blue as your eyes to the woody hollows in which we meet, in the valleys of paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake when long milk-bloom on the tree. The white lake-blossom fell into the lake as the pimpernel dozed on the lea. But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me, the lilies and roses all were awake. They sighed for the dawn in thee. Queen Rose of the Rosebud, garden of girls, come hither, the dances are done. In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen Lily and Rose in one. Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, to flowers and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear from the passion flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear. She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries. She is near. She is near. And the white rose weeps.
She is late. The larkspur listens. I hear. I hear. And the lily whispers. I wait. She is coming, my own, my sweet. Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed, My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom, and purple and red.
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5 05 - The Dying Stockman 1:50
The Dying Stockman.
A strapping young stockman lay dying, his saddle supporting his head. His two mates around him were crying as he rose on his elbow and said, Wrap me up with my stock-whip and blanket, and bury me deep down below, Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me, In the shade where the coolabars grow. Oh, had I the flight of the bronze wing, Far over the plains would I fly, Straight to the land of my childhood, And there would I lay down and die. Then cut down a couple of saplings, Place one at my head and my toe. Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle, to show there's a stockman below. Hark, there's the wail of a dingo. Watchful and weird, I must go, for it tolls the death knell of the stockman from the gloom of the scrub down below.
There's tea in the battered old billy. Place the panicans out in a row, and we'll drink to the next merry meeting in the place where all good fellows go. And oft in the shades of the twilight, when the soft winds are whispering low, and the darkening shadows are falling, sometimes think of the stockman below.
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6 06 - Faces in the Street 6:53
for reasons of their own, That want is here a stranger, and that miseries unknown. For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet, my window-sill is level with the faces in the street. Drifting past, drifting past to the beat of weary feet, while I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, to see upon those faces stamp the marks of want and care, I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet in sallow-sunken faces that are drifting through the street. Drifting on, drifting on to the scrape of restless feet, I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky, the wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by.
Increasing as the moments hurry on with mourning feet, till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street. Flowing in, flowing in to the beat of hurried feet, are I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. The human river dwindles when tis past the hour of eight. Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late. But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat, the city grinds the owners of the faces in the street. Grinding body, grinding soul, yielding scarce enough to eat, oh, I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Safe here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat.
Drifting round, drifting round to the tread of listless feet, ah, my heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street. And when the owls on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, and sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then, flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street, ebbing out, ebbing out to the drag of tired feet, while my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street. And now, all blurred and smirched with vice, the day's sad end is seen, for where the short large hours against the longer small hours lean, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street.
Sinking down, sinking down, battered wreck by tempest's beat, a dreadful thankless trade as hers, that woman of the street. But ah, to dreader things than these our fair young city comes. For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, where human forms shall rot away in styes for swine unmeet, and ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street, rotting out, rotting out for the lack of air and meat in dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street. I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure? Were all their windows level with the faces of the poor? Ah, mammon slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, when God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street.
The wrong things, and the bad things, and the sad things that we meet, in the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel heartless street. I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, and sought another window overlooking gorge and hill. But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, they haunted me, the shadows of those faces in the street, flitting by, flitting by, flitting by with noiseless feet, and with cheeks that scarce were paler than the real ones in the street. Once I cried, O God Almighty, if thy might doth still endure, now show me in a vision for the wrongs of earth a cure. And lo, with shops all shuttered, I beheld a city's street, and in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet.
Coming near, coming near, to a drum's dull distant beat, t'was Despair's conscripted army that was marching. Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, the human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, and kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, and flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street, pouring on, pouring on to a drum's loud threatening beat, and the war hymns and the cheering of the people. in the street. And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course. The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse. But not until a city feels red revolution's feet shall its sad people miss a while the terrors of the street, the dreadful everlasting strife for scarcely clothes and meat in that pent track of living death, The city's cruel street.
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7 07 - Gunga Din 3:49
Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox.org by Malcolm Fisher of Dover, England. Gunga Din. You may talk of gin and beer when you're caught in safe out here, and you're sent to penny fights that ought to shot it, or when it comes to slaughter, you'll do your work on water, and you'll lick the blooming boots of him that's got it. Now in just sunny climb. Why, I used to spend my time as serving of Her Majesty the Queen. Of all them black-faced crew, the finest man I knew was our regimental beastie, Gunga Dean. He was Dean, Dean, Dean. You limping lump of brick-dust, Gunga Dean. Why, slippery, illa low. Water, get it, penny low. You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Dean. The uniform he wore was nothing much before.
And rather less than half of that behind him, for a piece of a twisty rag and a goatskin water bag was all the field equipment he could find. When the sweatin' troop train lay in a siding through the day, when the heap would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, we shouted at Harry by, till our throats was bricky dry, and we wopped him, cause he couldn't serve us all. It was Dean, Dean, Dean. You heathen, where the mischief have you been? You put some jowdy in it, or a marry of this minute, if you don't fill up my omit, Gungadine. He would dot and carry one till the longest day was done, and he didn't seem to know the use of fear. If we charged, or broke, or cut, you could bet your bloomin nut he'd be waiting, fifty paces, right flank rear, with the mustick on his back.
He would skip with our attack. And watch us till the bugles made retire. And for all his dirty hide, he was white, clear white inside. When he went to tend the wounded under fire, it was Dean, Dean, Dean, with the bullets kicking dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, you could hear the front-ranked shout, Oi, ammunition mules, and gunga Dean. I shan't forget the night, when I dropped behind the fight, with a bullet. Where my belt-plate should have been. I was choking mad with thirst, and the man that spied me first was our good old grinning grunting Gunga Dean. He lifted up my head, and he plugged me where I bled, and he gived me half a pint of water-groom. It was crawling and it stunk, but of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm grateful as to one from Gunga Dean.
It was Dean, Dean, Dean. Here's a beggar with a bullet through his spleen. He's chawing up the ground, and he's kicking all around. For God's sake, get the water, Gungadine." He carried me away to where a dually lay, and a bullet come and drilled the beggar clean. He put me safe inside, and just before he died, I hope you like your drink, says Gungadine. So I'll meet him later on, at the place where he has gone, where it's always double drill and no canteen. He'd be squatting on the coals, giving drink to poor damn souls. Now get a swigging out from Gunga Dean. Yes, Dean, Dean, Dean, you Lazarusian leather Gunga Dean. They'll belt you and flade you by the living gould that made you. You're a better man than I am, Gunga Dean.
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8 08 - Hymn to Love 2:44
Hymn to Love by Lassell's Abercrombie. We are thine, O love, Being in thee and made of thee, As thou, love, were the deep thought, And we the speech of the thought. Yea, spoken are we, Thy fires of thought outspoken, But burned not through us thy imagining. Like fierce mood in a song court, we were, as clamored words a fool may fling, loose words of meaning broken. For what more like the brainless speech of a fool, the lives traveling dark fears, and as a boy throws pebbles in a pool, thrown down abysmal places? Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth and our journeying time theirs. As words of air, life makes of starry earth sweet soul-delighted faces. As voices are we in the worldly wind, the great wind of the world's fate is turned, as air to a shapen sound, to mind and marvellous desires.
But not in the world, as voices storm-shattered, not borne down by the wind's weight. The rushing time rings with our splendid word like darkness filled with fires. For love doth use us for a sound of song, and love's meaning our life wields, making our souls like syllables to throng his tunes of exultation. Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly, as rain blown along earth's fields. Yet are we, God-desiring liturgy, sung joys of adoration. Yea, made of chance, and all a labouring strife, we go charged with a strong flame. For, as a language, love hath seized on life his burning heart to story. Yea, love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee, thy thoughts golden and glad name, the mortal conscience of immortal glee, love's zeal in love's own glory.
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9 09 - Josef Hofmann 1:13
Yosef Hoffman by Elizabeth Porter Gould.
After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888. O marvelous child, a temple where in ease expectant genius dwells, while lingering here on earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere, dost feel awestruck to know thou hast the keys to new and wondrous unheard harmonies? O favored boy, marked out to be the peer of those who in all ages God's voice hear, Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees. Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates, this precious earthly temple of art's shrine. May chilling poverty, or sin that dates soul loss, ne'er hinder genius wise design to have full sway, as she anticipates. In working out, in time, her laws divine.
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10 10 - The Last of His Tribe 2:09
Waugh The Last of His Tribe He crouches and buries his face on his knees, and hides in the dark of his hair, for he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees, or think of the loneliness there. Of the loss and the loneliness there, the Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass and turn to their coverts for fear. But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass, where the boomerangs sleep with the spear, with the nullah, the sling, and the spear. Ulula, behold him, the thunder that breaks on the tops of the rocks with the rain, and the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes. Have made him a hunter again, a hunter and fisher again. For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought, but he dreams of the hunts of yore, and of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought, with those who will battle no more, who will go to the battle no more.
It is well that the water which tumbles and fills goes moaning and moaning along, for an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills, And he starts at a wonderful song, at the sound of a wonderful song. And he sees through the rents of the scattering fogs, the corroboree warlike and grim, and the lubra who sat on the fire on the logs, to watch like a mourner for him, like a mother and mourner for him. Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands, like a chief to the rest of his race? With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands, and gleams like a dream in his face, like a marvelous dream in his face.
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11 11 - Sonnet I (Love, though for this you riddle me with darts) 1:20
Sonnet One from Four Sonnets Love, though for this you riddle me with darts, by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Shakira Searle Love, though for this you riddle me with darts, and drag me at your chariot till I die, O heavy prince, O panderer of hearts, Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie who shout you mighty, Thick about my hair, day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr, Who still am free, unto no querulous care a fool, And in no temple worshipper. I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire, Lifted my face into its puny rain, do wreathe you, impotent. To evoke desire, as you are powerless to elicit pain. Now will the God, for blasphemy so brave, Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave.
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12 12 - The Old Man's Grave 1:22
The Old Man's Graves by Lucy Montgomery by Willie Make it where the wind may sweep through the pine-bounds soft and deep, and the murmur of the sea comes across the orient lee, and the falling raindrops sing gently to its slumbering. Make it where the meadows wide Greenly lie on every side. Harvest-fields he weeped and trod, Westering slopes of clover-sod. Orchard lands were bloom and blow, Trees he planted long ago. Make it where the starshine dim Be always close to him, And the sunrise glory spread lavishly around his bed, And the dew-grasses creep, Tenderly above his sleep, since these things to him were dear, through full many a well-spent year, it is surely meet their grace, should be on his resting-place, and the murmur of the sea be his dirge internally.
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13 13 - One Way of Love 1:15
One Way of Love, by Robert Browning.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, and strow them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside. Alas, let them lie! Suppose they die, the chance was they might take her eye. How many a month I strove to suit these stubborn fingers to the lute! Today I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string, fold music's wing. Suppose Pauline had bade me sing. My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove, and speak my passion. Heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven. Tis well. Lose who may? I still can say, those who were in heaven, blessed are they.
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14 14 - On Lake Memphremagog 1:03
In hammock nook, mid scenery wild and bold, The spirit of the waters, as of old, Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide, It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride The heart of man has on its bosom told, And hails as conqueror, Him who once did hold its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried. Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail the power of Him who walked the holy sea of Galilee. Capacity to fail were harder to believe than victory. May He who conquered wildest nature's heart His infinite power and rest to us impart.
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15 15 - The Penitent 1:20
I had a little sorrow, born of a little sin. I found a room all damp with gloom, and shut us all within. And little sorrow, weep, said I, and little sin, pray God to die. And I upon the floor will lie, and think how bad I've been. Alas for pious planning! It mattered not a whit. As far as gloom went in that room, the lamp might have been lit. My little sorrow would not weep. My little sin would go to sleep. To save my soul, I could not keep my graceless mind on it. So up I got, in anger, and took a book I had. And put a ribbon on my hair to please a passing lad. And one thing there's no getting by. I've been a wicked girl, said I. But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad.
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16 16 - The Pilgrim's Wants 1:54
The Pilgrim's Wants The Pilgrim's Wants I want a sweet sense of thy pardoning love, that my manifold sins are forgiven, that Christ as my advocate pleaded above, that my name is recorded in heaven. I want every moment to feel that Thy Spirit resides in my heart, that His power is present to cleanse and to heal, and newness of life to impart. I want, O I want to attain, some likeness my Saviour to Thee, that longed-for resemblance once more to regain Thy comeliness put upon me. I want to be marked for Thine own, Thy seal on my forehead to wear, To receive that new name on the mystic white stone, which none but thyself can declare. I want so in thee to abide, as to bring forth some fruit to thy praise.
The branch which thou prunest, though feeble and dried, may languish, but never decays. I want Thine own hand to unbind each tie to terrestrial things, too tenderly cherished, too closely entwined, where my heart so tenaciously clings. I want, by my aspect serene, my actions and words to declare, that my treasure is placed in a country unseen, that my heart's best affections are there, I want, as a traveler, to haste straight onward, nor pause on my way. No forethought and anxious contrivance to waste on the tent only pitched for a day. I want, and this sums up my prayer, to glorify thee till I die, then calmly to yield up my soul to thy care, and breathe out in faith my last sigh.
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17 17 - Presence of Love 1:19
The Presence of Love by Samuel Taylor Colidge.
And in life's noisiest hour, there whispers still the ceaseless love of thee, the heart's self-solace and soliloquy.
You mold my hopes You fashion me within, and to the leading love throb in the heart. Through all my being, through my pulses beat, you lie in all my many thoughts like light. Like the fair light of dawn or summer eve, on rippling stream or cloud-reflecting lake. And looking to the heaven that bends above you. How oft I bless the lot that made me love you.
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18 18 - Richard Cory 1:20
we people on the pavement looked at him. He was a gentleman from soul to crown, clean-favored, and imperially slim. And he was always... Quietly arrayed, and he was always human when he talked, but still he fluttered pulses when he said good morning, and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich, yes, richer than a king, and admirably schooled in every grace. In fine we thought he was everything to make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light. And went without the meat and cursed the bread. And Richard Corey, one calm summer night, went home and put a bullet through his head.
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19 19 - The Seafarer: a Translation from Old English Lyric 6:47
THE SEAFARE by Anonymous.
A TRANSLATION FROM THE OLD ENGLISH by Lola Lamotte Itdings.
Part I. I can sing of myself a true song of my voyages telling, How oft through laborious days, through the wearisome hours I have suffered, have borne tribulations, Explored in my ship mid the terrible rolling of waves, habitations of sorrow. Benumbed by the cold, oft the comfortless night-watch hath held me at the prow of my craft, as it tossed about under the cliffs. My feet were imprisoned with frost, were fettered with ice-chains, yet hotly were wailing the querulous sighs round my heart, and hunger within me, sea-weary made havoc of courage. This he, whose lot happily chances on land doth not know, Nor how I on the ice-cold sea passed the winter in exile. In wretchedness, robbed of my kinsmen, with icicles hung.
The hail flew in showers about me, and there I heard only the roar of the sea, ice-cold waves, and the song of the swan. For pastime, the gannet's cry served me, the kittiwik's chatter for laughter of men, and for mead-drink the call of the sea-mews. When storms on the rocky cliffs beat, then the turns, icy-feathered, made answer. Full oft the sea-eagle forebodingly scream'd, Eagle with pinions wave wet. There none of my kinsmen might gladden my desolate soul. Of this little he knows who possesses the pleasures of life, who has felt in the city some hardship, some trifling adversity, proud and wine-flushed. How weary I oft had to tarry upon the sea-way. The shadows of night became darker. It snowed from the north.
The world was enchained by the frost. Hail fell upon the earth. Twas the coldest of grain, yet the thoughts of my heart now are throbbing to test the high streams, the salt waves in tumultuous play. There is no one that dwells upon earth, so exalted in mine, so large in his bounty, Nor yet of such vigorous youth, nor so daring in deeds, nor to whom his liege-lord is so kind, but that he is always a longing, a seafaring passion, for what the Lord God shall bestow, be it honour or death. No heart for the harp has he, nor for acceptance of treasure. No pleasure has he in a wife, no delight in the world, nor in aught save the roll of the billows. But oh is a longing, a yearning uneasiness hastens him on to the sea.
The woodlands are captured by blossoms, the hamlets grow fair. Broad minnows are beautiful, earth again bursts into life, and all stir the heart of the wanderer eager to journey. So he meditates going afar on the pathway of tides. The cuckoo, moreover, gives warning with sorrowful note. Summer's harbinger sings, and forbodes to the heart bitter sorrow. The nobleman comprehends not, the luxurious man, what some must endure who travel the farthest in exile. Now my spirit uneasily turns in the heart's narrow chamber, now wanders forth over the tides, o'er the home of the whale, to the ends of the earth, and comes back to me, eager and greedy. The lone wanderer screams, and resistlessly drives my soul onward, over the whale-path, over the tracks of the sea.
Part Two. The delights of the Lord are far dearer to me than this dead, fleeting life upon earth, for I cannot believe that earth's riches forever endure. Each one of three things, ere its time comes, is always uncertain—violence, age, and disease. Wrench the soul away, doomed to depart. This is praise from the living, from those who speak afterwards. This the best fame after death. That ere he departed he labored, and wrought daring deeds gainst the malice of fiends and the devil, so men shall extol him. His praise among angels shall live, ever world without end. His the blessing of life everlasting, and joy mid the hosts. The days have departed, all pomps of earth's kingdom have vanished. There are now no kings, no emperors now, no gold-givers as of yore.
When they wrought in their midst the most glorious deeds, and lived in the lordliest power. This glory has fallen. The lights have all vanished away. The weak ones remain. And these govern the world, obtaining their pleasure with effort. Power has declined. Earth's glory grows aged and sere. Like every man now in the world, old age overtakes him. His countenance loses its color. Gray-haired he laments. He has seen his old friends, sons of princes consign'd to the earth. This garment of flesh has no power when the spirit escapes, to drink in the sweet nor taste the bitter. It then has no power to stretch forth the hands or to think with the mind. Though the grave should be covered with gold by the nearest of kin, be buried along with the dead in masses of treasure, still that will not go with them.
Gold can no substitute be for the fear of the Lord to the soul that is laden with sin, which aforetime, so long as it lived, kept that treasure concealed. Great is the fear of the Lord. The earth trembles before it. He established the unmovable earth, the world, and the heavens. Foolish is he who stands not in awe of the Lord. Unexpectedly death comes upon him, but happy is he who lives humble in mind, To Him cometh honour from heaven. God doth establish the soul that believes in His might. One should check a strong will, and should govern it firmly. Be true unto men, and be clean in his manner of life. Fate, God the Creator, is stronger than any man's will. Come, let us reflect where our home is.
Consider the way by which we go thither. Then let us each strive to press forward to joy everlasting. Where life has its source and God's love, where is heavenly hope. Then to him who is holy be thanks, because he hath honoured us. Thanks to the ruler of heaven, the Lord everlasting, throughout all the ages. Amen.
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20 20 - Sea Sand 2:35
Sea-sand by Sarah Teasdale. Read for LibriVox.org. 1. June night. O Earth, you are too dear to-night. How can I sleep while all around floats rainy fragrance and the far deep voice of the ocean that talks to the ground? O Earth, you gave me all I have. I love you. I love you. Oh, what have I that I can give you in return, except my body, after I die?
Two. I thought of you. I thought of you and how you love this beauty, and walking up the long beach all alone, I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder, as you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me the cold and sparkling silver of the sea. We, too, will pass through death and ages lengthen before you hear that sound again with me. 3. O day of fire and sun. O day of fire and sun, pure as a naked flame, blue sea, Blue sky and dun sands where he spoke my name. Laughter and heart so high that the spirit flew off free, lifting into the sky, diving into the sea. O day of fire and sun, like a crystal burning, slow days go one by one, but you have no returning.
Four. When Death Is Over If there is any life when death is over, these tawny beaches will know much of me. I shall come back, as constant and as changeful as the unchanging many-coloured sea. If life were small, if it has made me scornful, forgive me. I shall straighten like a flame in the great calm of death. And if you want me, Stand up on the sun-swept dunes, and call my name.
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21 21 - A Smuggler's Song 2:41
A smuggler's song. If you wake at midnight and hear a horse's feet, Don't go drawing back the blind or looking in the street, Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by. Five-and-twenty ponies trotting through the dark. Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk, laces for a lady, letters for a spy, and watch the wall, my darling, or the gentlemen go by. Running round the woodluck, if you chance to find, little barrels roped and tarred, all full of brandy wine. Don't you shout to come and look, nor use em for your play. Put the brushwood back again. They'll be gone next day. If you see the stable door setting open wide, if you see a tired horse laying down inside, if your mother mends a coat cut about and tore, if the lining's wet and warm, don't you ask no more.
If you meet King George's men dressed in blue and red, you be careful what you say. And mindful what is said. If they call you pretty maid, and chuck you neath the chin, don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been. Knocks and footsteps round the house, whistles after dark. You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark. Trust is here, and pinch us here, and see how dumb they lie. They don't fret or follow. When the gentlemen go by. If you do, as you've been told, likely there's a chance. You'll be given a dainty doll all the way from France, with a cap of valencies and a velvet hood, a present from the gentlemen, along a being good. Five-and-twenty ponies, trotting through the dark.
Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clark. Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by.
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22 22 - A Song in Storm 3:19
A Song in Storm. Be well assured that on our side the abiding oceans fight, though headlong wind and heaping tide. Make us their sport tonight. By force of weather, not of war, in jeopardy we steer. Then welcome fate's discourtesy, whereby it shall appear. How in all time of our distress, and our deliverance too, the game is more than the player of the game, and the ship is more than the crew. Out of the mist, into the murk. The glimmering comas roll. Almost these mindless waters work as though they had a soul. Almost as though they league to whelm our flag beneath their green. Then welcome fate's discursion whereby it shall be seen. How in all time are far distressed, and our deliverance too.
The game is more than the player of the game. And the ship is more than the crew. Be well assured, though wave and wind Have mightier blows in store, That we who keep the watch assigned Must stand to it the more. And as our streaming vows rebuke Each billow's balked career, Sing, welcome fate's discourtesy, Whereby it is made clear. How in all time of our distress! And our deliverance too. The game is more than the player of the game, and the ship is more than the crew. No matter though our decks be swept, and mast and timbers crack, we can make good all loss except the loss of turning back. So, twixt these devils and our deep, let courteous trumpets sound, to welcome fake's discourtesy, whereby it will be found.
How in all time of our distress, and our deliverance too, The game is more than the player of the game, And the ship is more than the crew.
Be well assured, though in our power Is nothing left to give, But chance and place to meet the hour, And leave to strive to live. Till these dissolve, our orders hold, Our service binds us here. Then welcome fate's discourtesy, whereby it is made clear. How in all times of our distress, as in our triumph too, the game is more than the player of the game, and the ship is more than the crew.
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23 23 - Sonnet 18 1:31
Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare. Read for LibriVox.org by Eunache.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's leaves Hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is its gold complexion dimmed, and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade. Nor lose possession of the fair thou owest, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in its shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest, So long as man can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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24 24 - Sonnet 105 1:37
Since all alike my songs and praises be To one of one still such And ever so.
Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind, still constant in a wondrous excellence. Therefore, my verse to constancy confined, one thing expressing leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true is all my argument. Fair, kind, and true. And true varying to other words. And in this change is my invention spent. Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true have often lived alone, which three till now never kept sit in one.
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25 25 - The Sword of Pain 10:52
The Sword of Pain by George Essex Evans The Sword of Pain The lights burn dim and make weird shadow play The white walls of the ward are changed to gray Down the long aisle of beds with tender grace Sleep smooths the lines on many a weary face. Yet there are those for whom no midnight brings, solace and strength to face the day again, and over all with wide majestic wings there broods the awful mystery of pain.
Night wears apace, and now the silence breaks. As here and there some fitful slumber wakes, and pain-triumphant, pain with burning grip, rings grudging tribute from the tortured lip. A strong man's groan, a boy's short-sobbing cry, pierces the stillness with a sudden breath, or the low moan of long-drawn agony, asking not respite, but the boon of death. Here in the halls of suffering eye to eye, Men measure death and mark if he pass by. Here in the halls of suffering swings the strife, Wherein man's skill and death contest for life. Here woman moves in tenderest ministries, With gracious hands that calm the throbbing brain, Skill and compassion facing fell disease, And mercy watching by the bed of pain.
Ah, night and day, in armor like the snow, Patient and brave the gray-robed nurses go. With light swift steps, low voices, cheery smiles, From bed to bed adown those dolorous aisles. Angels of succor, girt with snowy mail, As warriors donned of old their armor bright, Serene when danger bids the bravest quail, Against the batteries of death they fight. Here, in the restless night upon my bed, Whilst bands of steel seem tightening round my head, Strong tides are rushing through my heart and brain, The goal of life, the mystery of pain. Now on the rising wind that roars without, Murmurs and discord mingle. Till it seems, the voice of the world's wounded and about, me seem to be the dreams that are not dreams.
Wherefore, great architect, whose power august, buildeth the universe of very dust, and that imperial palace of the mind, more stately than the stars who dost not bind, thought that can conquer nature and above, The power of mind has set the power of love. O thou who weavest through this web of strife, Strands of great agony and bloody rue, Must we still search this labyrinth of life, To perish groping blindly for the clue. Even as I cried the grey walls fell away, The longward vanished in the glare of day. The broad world spread before me, and I saw. Thousands lie stretched in the red swathes of war. In rigid wreck, like fields of storm-crushed corn, gray faces twisted to a horrid smile, and limbs and piteous bodies, wrenched and torn, mangled unspeakably, strewn pile on pile.
I turned to peace amid her olive trees. Great cities rose before me, villages, the spacious mansion and the lonely cot. There was no door that pain had entered not. I heard like sobbings of an unseen tide, its keen fire run through all things, and I said, Peace masks a secret war on every side. There is no rest from travail. God is dead.
No more the solid earth my footsteps pressed. The wide sky caught me upward to its breast. The living ether seemed a quickening sea, where thrilled unseen the germs of worlds to be. At times I seemed to move upon the verge of some vast viewless current streaming far. And my brain quivered as, with mighty surge, strange thought-waves swept the gulfs from star to star. In ordered majesty each system runs, with mighty planets circling sovereign suns, and strange pale moons like ghosts that haunt the scene, of their once living glory and serene, slow-dying stars dreaming of days forgot, Of silent worlds and ancient memories, White mountain crests, dense forest, secret grot, Wide plains, wild shores, the crash of plunging seas.
Like a blown leaf, caught by the vagrant air, That still ascends, I mounted everywhere, Dead suns and satellites, a lightless train, In darkness rushing to be born again. Hurled through the void, or by feast shock redeemed, blazed back to life and flushed with splendor bright. Thronged spaces and dark rolling orbs that seemed, millions of black motes in a sea of light. There is a river whose imperial flow circles the midmost heaven with broadening glow, its fiery waves are rays of sun supreme, Crimson and gold, its changing currents gleam, and blue and purest white, and in its tide, move worlds unnumbered and the starry dust, that builds new suns and powers that shall abide, to rule new regions with a sway or gust.
Within the airy isle its waters fold, seven mighty suns circle in quivering gold. And over all uplift upon the gyre, shaped like a cross, a sword of living fire. Emerald and amber, opal, white and blue. Swift light's keen tremors flash from point to hilt, and now blood-red it throbs as though it knew the whole world's agony, the whole world's guilt.
It is the cross sublime. Uplifted high, great flames break from it, floating down the sky, as though the blood of him who, undismayed, suffered our sins dripped from its burning blade. As though the blood of all Earth's noblest ones, dreamers and heroes, fell in fiery rain, to temper world's newborn and mightier sons, the sword of victory, the sword of pain. Trembling, I spake before that awful sword. Where is the golden city of the Lord, with gates of pearl and on its crystal sea? Peace and the solace of eternity. Then like a flash, I knew the air around, was living ether, and I felt the gaze, of myriad eyes unseen and heard the sound, as of vast music known in far-off days. There fell a star across the brow of night, and a voice answered, echoing from the height.
The gods ye fashion perish one by one. The living God endures when all are gone. Fool, canst thou know the eternal in a day? Can mortal judge the immortal face to face, who of the star-dust buildeth as he may? And takes for throne the regions of all space.
Eternal Spirit, imminent, apart, Thou in the living temple of the heart, Lightest thine altar-fires, that souls may reign, Or worlds not yet create, and makest pain, The discipline of life, the seal of worth, The test of courage and the burning star. That leads through veils of darkness to rebirth, to loftier life and victory afar.
Ah! not in golden city nor crystal sea, but in wide circles of infinity, our work is set, and not from harps of gold, but hearts of men deep harmonies are rolled. Vast powers stir around us, and our course may be, By other paths than those our fathers trod, and science with her torch unconsciously through strange new realms may lead men back to God.
He knows not life who hath not felt the breath, nor gazed once in the mocking eyes of death, the purest springs, the waters without stain, well upward from the burning heart of pain. Behold, I saw in purest air afar, A great light dawn and widen and increase, With white flame crested like a perfect star, Above the sword of pain, the crown of peace.
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26 26 - Twinkle Twinkle Little Star 1:12
Trinkle Trinkle Little Star by Anonymous. Red for LiveRocks.org by Super Coconut. Trinkle Trinkle Little Star, I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. When the glorious sun is wet, when the grass is blue is wet. Then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night. In the dark blue sky you keep, and often through my curtains peek.
For you never shut your eye, till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark guides the traveler in the dark. Though I know what... Not what you are. Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
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27 27 - What Do You Care? 3:01
What Do You Care? by William Edward Ross. Read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding. Out to the mines in the chill of the morn, Stunted, ill-nourished, comes the forlorn stream of humanity, Undersized men, slaving and toiling for lifeblood, But then, dressed warm and cosy, with slate, book and rule, George and your Nelly have started to school. They are your children, their cheeks warm and fair, while Tony's are hunky, so what do you care? Over the bridges, the hills and the fen, streams the procession of undersized men, climbing the stairs to the waiting machines. Lowered in cages to death-marked ravines. Look at their faces, sad, pinched and worn. Look at their garments, threadbare and torn. Look at their swagger, their precocious air.
Some mothers babies, but what do you care? Children of poverty, born to duress, cradled and nursed in the lap of distress. Wearing the garments of manhood in youth, learning its vices but missing its truth. Slaving and toiling in factory and pit, seeking their pittance wherever they'll fit, caged in the sweatshops and penned in the lair of tubercular poison. But what do you care? Tony's a hunky and Sammy's a wop, foreigners truly and aliens. But stop! Some woman bore them in travail and fear. Somebody's children, to some mother, dear. Think not, because they're from poverty's stems, some mother's heart is not breaking for them. Or, cause they dwell in the vale of despair, she does not love them.
But what do you care? What do you care, the arraignment doth read. What is your plea to the true bill of greed? What can you offer by way of defence, you who judge lives by their value in sense? Sponsor of slavery's misery-filled pen, they are your chattels, these undersized men. What will you say when the judge, truly fair, cries, these are my children, but... What did you care?