Last month I posted a poem about the classic authors of the past. I also said that any readers could submit their own original works of poetry, one of which I might post on this blog. Well, here's one received from Andrew R, which speaks of the nobility and bravery required of manhood. Enjoy!
Victory Or Death
by Andrew R.
Will a man from danger hide,
Will he from the struggle bide,
Where the conflict shall decide,
Chains or liberty?
Does a manly spirit bow
To a tyrant's lifted brow,
Never! Up and lay the blow!
Living, dying free!
Every man a death must die,
All beneath the sod shall lie,
But the man who danger flies
Dies a double death.
He's a base and sickly shame,
Who the right will not reclaim,
Oh! for true and righteous name,
What is feeble breath?
Who'd a false deserter be?
Scoff a helpless woman's plea?
His no soul of liberty!
Naught but endless shame!
Coward base who frets and fears,
Duty's clarion never hears
Though a man his form appears,
His is not the name.
Selfish fool who saves his skin,
What is there for him to win?
Nothing but reproach and sin,
Slavery's awful blight!
But soul of sacrifice
Self and sin cannot entice,
His a prize of greater price,
Crown of glory bright.
What though cowards may disdain,
Boldness true men don't constrain,
Let not fear your spirit chain,
God defends the just!
Fear of man's an awful snare,
But to him who's frank and bare,
God will still his honor spare,
For in Him he trusts!
Men whose fathers bravely bled,
Oft their story you have read,
Glorious their "gory bed,"
Twas honor for the right.
By the faithful men of old,
By the sword of heroes bold,
Fight and die, but never fold
Stalwart in the fight!
Not a sniveling coward's duel,
Not the hauteur of a fool,
Not the lust for selfish rule
Fires the manly breath.
When Jehovah goes before,
As the heroes brave of yore,
This our cry through wreck and war,
Victory or Death!
Good job, Andrew, for such an encapsulation of Biblical chivalry!
Tueri a vulnere,
John
A few weeks ago I wrote a poem to honor the lives and writing styles of some classic authors of years gone by. I consider poetry to be a significant element of literature, and as so, an important area in which to exercise dominion. Feel free to email me any poems which you may have written. I'd love to see them, and if one is really good, I might post it on this blog!
Of Authors Great and Gone
By John Horn
'Twas as a boy I loved to read,
And to the classics gave I heed,
To knights of yore, and tables round,
My youthful mind would lightly bound.
To tales of boys who thought like men,
As steady with the sword, as pen,
Whose noble deeds shone evermore,
Regardless, whether rich or poor.
I ask your patience for a time,
Peruse, for me, this little rhyme,
In which, unworthily, 'tis true,
I paint the authors, grand, and few.
The wordy prose of Verne is full,
With concepts grand, alluring pull,
Where scientific thought prevails,
And future's present he unveils.
His men are hearty, bold, and fierce,
Whose open minds knowledge has pierced,
They conquer lands unseen before,
Descending to earth's molten core.
Across the frozen wastes they glide,
Circling the globe with noble stride,
Beneath the waves a path they find,
Though dangers lurk, they are not blind.
Into his men Verne inculcates,
Grand, thoughtful, careful, noble, traits,
And power which could almost be,
Possessed by super-humanry.
And yet, his books contain a charm,
Adventure's strong, uncovered arm,
And boy doth read with bated breath,
'Till right hath caused the villain's death.
Now leave we Verne's prophetic works,
To tread ground where the savage lurks,
And gallant sailors, ships do save,
With "Cooper of the wind and wave."
The sun-bronzed woodsman tracks his prey,
Through gloomy night and shining day,
While painted warriors watch his path,
Prepared on him to wreak their wrath.
With hawkish eye the hunter fires,
Contributing to savage pyres,
His hand is firm, it doth not shake,
His eye as bright as crystal lake,
His limbs like iron bars suspend,
His cause the weaker to defend,
His tongue, unguided, without lie,
His heart prepared, if needs, to die.
The woodland forests stretch to meet,
The mighty ocean's watery street,
Upon the tides sail ships of fame,
Sailored by men of noble frame.
Romanticized the seas have been,
By rivers of J. Cooper's pen,
And pirates lift their bloody flag,
A Spanish galleon soon to bag.
With great precaution journeyed they,
A spy might find their pirate bay,
And 'pon the gallows stark they'd be,
A gruesome picture of the sea.
The gloomy woods and sparkling sea,
Depart we now for G. Henty,
The prince of story-tellers, long,
Holds fast the heart of boy-hood strong.
With armies, brave, the pages flow,
And England's banners proudly show.
His horseman's sword he never stays,
For stallions charge, not dappled drays.
The jockeys are not dressed for show,
Accoutered stern, spears row on row,
The art of war they have long known
Professors grim, with hearts of stone.
The history of each tribe he tells,
Their wars, their peace, and what propels
Their quest for ne'er diminished pow'r,
For which are killed, of youth, their flow'r.
Meanwhile, the hero, brave and young,
A boy of which songs will be sung,
Doth battle life with courtesy.
And thus the pen of George Henty.
The historyed wars and long campaigns,
Dissolve into antiquos rains,
As "Ballantyne the Brave" comes forth,
To prove the world his noble worth.
With gravity and joyous mien,
The earth's remotest parts they've seen,
From desert plains to Arctic wastes,
And sparkling coral seas he hastes,
Into Brazilian jungles thick,
Their paths, his boyish heroes pick,
As well the streets of London town,
They tread 'neath skies of foggy brown.
Himself a man of count'nance firm,
His men unlike the sinnish worm,
Instead their thoughts to ethereal skies,
Soar nobly as the eagle flies.
A boyish laugh, a humored strain,
A conscience clear, left without stain,
A purpose firm, a Christian love,
A deep belief in Him above,
Thus carefully they thread life's toils,
Acquainted with earth's humble soils,
Bereft of pride's eroding hate,
With good sense placed inside their pate.
Aye, Ballantyne a master is,
The art of painting greatness his,
And with respect we turn the page,
Upon this grand, enduring sage.
'Twas Robert Louis Stevenson,
With fingers deft his stories spun,
For Ballantyne he read while young,
And on each word breathless he hung,
Then as a man he soon became,
Himself an author, gained great fame.
"Pieces of eight," the parrot cried,
Treasures of hate, and many died,
As on that classic, dreaded isle,
Lurked pirates fierce, besmeared and vile,
By years debauched, senseless of right,
Dark shadows cast by flick'ring light.
'Twas also on the Scottish moors,
That Balfour met with kingly lures,
Caught 'twixt the Stuart hierarchy,
And England's German monarchy.
Yes, blood was spilt upon the sands,
Some innocent, by wicked hands,
Some shed in hope of better days,
When bright would shine enduring rays.
And so a heritage he twined,
With murderous scenes, and love combined,
With deft hands, weaving mortal threads,
To enter Britain's youthful heads.
If Stevenson ambitiously,
Wrote tales of kings and piracy,
Then Dickens of humanity,
Recorded sorrows dutifully.
The bleakness of the times he wrote,
The flowing tears of men, did note,
Oppressed by knaves, reincarnate,
Of ancient warlords, spreading hate,
Whose riches gained, by tyranny,
O'er feeble wretches gave them glee,
Soci'ties poor, England's outcasts,
Necessedly in constant fasts,
For food is dear, and wages low,
Thus writes Dickens, and he should know,
Himself rescued from vile slums,
By dint of small and hard-earned sums.
And yet upon life's softer side,
He doth occasion'lly abide,
Where crimson bloom the cheeks of maids,
When into sight their love parades.
And so dear reader, you have come,
Through years of scratching pencils' hum,
Unto the last of my chosen,
I thank your patience once again,
For journ'ying with the authors great,
Who long are gone, and yet whose slate,
Is covered with the joyous thanks,
Of those like me in boyhood's ranks.
Copyright, John Horn, 2010
For those interested in poetry, "Of Authors Great and Gone" is written in iambic tetrameter, with a rhyme scheme of AABB. Huzzah for the authors of the past!
Tueri a vulnere,
John
In R. M. Ballantyne's literary life, poetry played a large role. As most readers know, the epitaph "Ballantyne the Brave" comes from a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, found on the front page of his classic Treasure Island. Josh has posted this poem before, but if you have not yet read it, please do.
Poetry has played a significant part of our history. Before writing and reading were commonly developed, bards put history to rhyme, passing orally from father to son tales of their ancestors' deeds. (Bards were simply poets who memorized and then dramatized their accounts before admiring crowds of countrymen). These stirring accounts bequeathed a beautiful heritage of manliness and courage. For centuries, bards from ancient Britain, Scotland, and Ireland have inspired their countrymen to war and dolefully sang the praises of their country.
However, oral tradition is not the only avenue for poetic expression. The increasing use of the written word created new depths of rhyme and verse to be explored. We have a wonderful heritage from the pens of Longfellow, Stevenson, Scott, Burns, Shakespeare, and the list goes on!
Classics such as The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, The Village Blacksmith, or The Courtship of Miles Standish are some of my favorites. I find a certain fascination when reading a story recounted in perfect rhyme and meter, showing the care and time which the author spent with his work. A tale, preferably historic, which is recounted in a poem is of more interest to me than a descripatory work upon some general subject, such as an "Ode to Flowers". (Not that there's anything wrong with flowers).
From childhood, Ballantyne and his family were necessarily immersed in poetry. Alexander "Sandy" Ballantyne, father to our hero, was, along with his brother, the publisher of Sir Walter Scott. Robert also worked in their publishing house and knew the great Scottish author. Scott wrote hundreds of pages filled with beautiful poetry, some of which Ballantyne almost certainly read. To learn more of the Ballantynes' work with Scott, Josh wrote a great article about it here.
Our hero also tried his hand at poetry. Most likely you have, at least in early childhood, heard the poem The Three Little Kittens. What is not common knowledge is the fact that R. M. Ballantyne popularized this nursery rhyme, both by incorporating the poem into a story and by embellishing the book with drawings from his own pen. A few other lesser-known rhymes also originated from Ballantyne who, through the psydonym of Comus, wrote such works as Mister Fox, The Kitten Pilgrims, and The Robber Kitten. I hope to discuss his nursery rhymes extensively in following posts.
Ballantyne often used poetry in his books to illustrate select points. A snatch of verse here, a few lines there, or occassionally a longer passage would fill his pages. The Giant of the North, which speaks of Arctic exploration and discovery is just one example. A young Englishman named Alf extensively quotes a poet named Buzzby, of whom I can find no record, but whom Alf describes as only second to Tennyson. A humorous instance is Buzzby's poem "The Bliss of Ignorance", which Alf used to sarcastically contrast the view that ignorance can be a blissful existence.
Two of Ballantyne's books, Norsemen in the West and Erling the Bold, are based upon a different type of poetry. A "saga" is a Norse tale of historic achievements, usually written in rhyme. Both books mentioned are adaptions of ancient Norse sagas. However, that doesn't mean that they're just long poems! On the contrary, Ballantyne took the facts which the sagas set down, developing story and characters, combining all into highly fluid and interesting tales.
Below is a small translated sample of the saga upon which Norsemen in the West was based. It speaks of the first Norse settlement in North America, outside of Greenland, in the late 1000's.
When western waves were all unkown,
And western fields were all unsown,
When Iceland was the outmost bound
That roving viking-keels had found-
Gunbiorn then--Ulf Kraka's son--
Still farther west was forced to run
By furious gales, and there saw land
Stretching abroad on either hand.
Although sometimes the poetic flow is a little stretched, this probably was caused by word-length differences between English and Norse. All things considered, the sagas keep a decent meter and a regular rhyme scheme. These factors made the sagas much easier to remember than the same information put into book format.
In his early days before becoming a published author, Ballantyne tried his own hand at a little poetry. Below is the first portion of a poem written while Ballantyne lived in the wintry lands of Canada, working for the Hudson's Bay Company as a clerk:
Upon the shores of Hudson's Bay,
Where Arctic winters, stern and grey,
Freeze the salt-waters of the Deep
In a long, silent icy sleep;
Where willows and the stunted pine
Can scarcely live in such a clime,
Where Arctic fox and polar bear,
Clad in a coat of snow-white hair,
Prowl forth to snuff the tainted gale
And feast on walrus or the whale;
With snow and ice encompassed round,
And built on low and swampy ground,
Through which Haye's River takes its way
And slowly joins the frozen Bay;
There in its cold and icy lands,
Silent and grim, York Factory stands.
Although I have not found the rest of this unpublished poem, it is a little window into his life at the time, and Ballantyne's perspective on his surroundings. Not a masterpiece, it does show some promise of later literary achievements. The full poem was two-hundred lines in length.
Another poem written by a much older Ballantyne is found on the opening page of his book The Life of a Ship. The Great Blue Ocean was written as a song, and contains three verses. Because this poem has previously been posted, I will simply provide a link to the full text, which I would recommend reading.
Do you enjoy reading poetry? Or writing it? Perhaps you haven't before, but now have been inspired! I'd love to see any of your poems about Ballantyne, his books, other authors, their books, or even books in general! If I like the work, I may post samples on this blog. Please send it to me!
Tutela ex Vulnero,
John
Originally the song was only two verses. The first verse is about the "Minstrel Boy"/Balladeer who goes forth to the battle and his resolve to guard the "Land of Song" (Ireland). The second verse speaks of his death at the hands of the foe while tearing the cords from his harp, saying, "No chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were writ for the pure and free, they shall never sound in slavery!" This was heroism at its best.
The song became a national favorite among the Scots and the Irish during the War Between the States. During this time, an unknown soldier added another verse which speaks of the day when the Minstrel Boy shall return and when "all the bitterness of man must cease, and every battle must be ended."
The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar:
Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train.
The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave,
Who saw his Master in the sky,
And called on Him to save;
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue
In midst of mortal pain,
He prayed for them that did the wrong:
Who follows in his train?
A glorious band, the chosen few
On whom the Spirit came,
Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,
And mocked the cross and flame:
They met the tyrant's brandished steel,
The lion's gory mane;
They bowed their necks the death to feel:
Who follows in their train?
A noble army, men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of light arrayed:
They climbed the steep ascent of heav'n
Through peril, toil and pain:
O God, to us may grace be giv'n
To follow in their train.
A friend of mine sent this to me a while ago. I think this is a very good poem. As young men we should really take what this poem is saying to heart and act upon it because, as the poem states, "... from your future efforts, boys, comes a nation's destiny." I wish I knew who wrote it, because, It really reminds me of Henty's quote about true heroism.
Boys of spirit, boys of will,
Boys of muscle, brain and power,
Fit to cope with anything,
These are wanted every hour.
Not the weak and whining drones,
Who all troubles magnify;
Not the watchword of "I can't,"
But the nobler one, "I'll try."
Do whate'er you have to do
With a true and earnest zeal;
Bend your sinews to the task,
"Put your shoulders to the wheel."
Though your duty may be hard,
Look not on it as an ill;
If it be an honest task,
Do it with an honest will.
In the workshop, on the farm,
At the desk, where'er you be,
From your future efforts, boys,
Comes a nation's destiny.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell
,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
By Alfred Tennyson,
Here is a song that should be an inspiration to any Scot, or anyone who is a Scot at heart for that matter. You can get this song here from Behemoth.com.
Chorus:
Hatcheen foad'm, foam, foam,
Hatcheen foam, foam, foam,
Hatcheen foam, foam, foam,
Rise and follow Chairlie.
From every hill and every glen,
Are gathering fast the loyal men,
They grasp their dirks and shout again.
Hurrah for Royal Chairlie.
Chorus
On dark Culloden's field of gore,
Hark they shout 'Claymore, Claymore,
They bravely fight what can they more.'
Than die for Royal Chairlie.
Chorus
Now on the barren heath they lie,
Their Funeral Dirge the eagle's cry,
And mountain breezes o'er them sigh,
Wha' fought and died for Chairlie.
Chorus
No more we'll see such deeds again,
Deserted is each highland glen,
And ye lonely cairns are o'er the men,
Wha' fought and died for Chairlie.
Chorus
Note:
"Hatcheen foad'm" in the chorus means "it comes upon me" or "I have the wish."
I heard the cheers ascending,
I saw her kiss the foam,
When first her hull went plunging
Into her ocean home.
Her flags were gaily streaming,
And her sails were full and round,
When the shout from shore came ringing,
"Hurrah! for the Outward-bound!"
But, alas! ere long a tempest
Came down with awful roar
And dashed our ship in pieces
Upon a foreign shore.
But He who holds the waters
In His almighty hand,
Brought all the sailors safely
Back to their native land.
From The Life of a Ship, By R. M. Ballantyne.
One of the young men that was directly touched by Ballantyne's witness through literature was a young Robert Louis Stevenson. This young man was so impressed with the story of The Coral Island that he would later base portions of his famous book Treasure Island on themes found in Ballantyne's The Coral Island. In fact, he honored Ballantyne in the introduction to Treasure Island with the following poem:
--So be it, and fall on! If not,
If studious youth no longer crave,
His ancient appetites forgot,
Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave,
Or cooper of the wind and wave:
So be it, also! And may I
And all my pirates share the grave
Were these and their creations lie!
-Robert Louis Stevenson Treasure Island
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