And He Said, "Fight On" [1]

(Tennyson)

Time and its ally, Dark Disarmament,
        Have compassed me about,
Have massed their armies, and on battle bent
        My forces put to rout;
But though I fight alone, and fall, and die,
        Talk terms of Peace? Not I.

They war upon my fortress, and their guns
        Are shattering its walls;
My army plays the cowards' part, and runs,
        Pierced by a thousand balls;
They call for my surrender. I reply,
        "Give quarter now? Not I."

They've shot my flag to ribbons, but in rents
        It floats above the height;
Their ensign shall not crown my battlements
        While I can stand and fight.
I fling defiance at them as I cry,
        "Capitulate? Not I."

Emily Pauline Johnson

Emily Pauline Johnson was a Canadian poet of mixed Mohawk and English heritage. She was born on March 10, 1861, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. Johnson became known for her performances, where she often wore a traditional Mohawk dress. Her published works include poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity, cultural heritage, and nature. She passed away on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Beyond The Blue

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

In The Shadows

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Moonset

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Under Canvas - In Muskoka

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

English

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An Inspiration

However the battle is ended,
    Though proudly the victor comes
With fluttering flags and prancing nags
    And echoing roll of drums,
Still truth proclaims this motto
    In letters of living light, -
No question is ever settled
    Until it is settled right.

Though the heel of the strong oppressor
    May grind the weak in the dust;
And the voices of fame with one acclaim
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Let those who applaud take warning.
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Let those who have failed take courage;
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Though his ranks are strong, if he be in the wrong
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A Hero's Decision.

He just had reached the time of life,
When cares are felt by men,
But when they're strong to bear them well, -
A score of years and ten.
"Heigh ho!" says he, "and this is life,
The dream of earlier years,
In which we see so much of joy,
And naught of bitter tears.

"I've lived a half a score of years,
In search of fame and glory,
For all earth's boasted joys I've sought,
But ah! what is the story?"

The story! 'tis the same old tale,
Told long, long years ago,
But strange, each for himself must learn
This earth's a 'fleeting show.'

"The dreams of sanguine, hopeful youth,
Are chiefly dreams alone,
Whose falseness often breaks the heart,
Or turns it into stone.
Fame's or ambition's giddy height
Is only seldom gain'd,

Thomas Frederick Young

To The Duke Of Argyll

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know
The limits of resistance, and the bounds
Determining concession; still be bold
Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn;
And be thy heart a fortress to maintain
The day against the moment, and the year
Against the day; thy voice, a music heard
Thro all the yells and counter-yells of feud
And faction, and thy will, a power to make
This ever-changing world of circumstance,
In changing, chime with never-changing Law.

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Self-Interogation.

"The evening passes fast away.
'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the vanished day,
What feelings in thy breast?

"The vanished day? It leaves a sense
Of labour hardly done;
Of little gained with vast expense,
A sense of grief alone?

"Time stands before the door of Death,
Upbraiding bitterly
And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
Pours black reproach on me:

"And though I've said that Conscience lies
And Time should Fate condemn;
Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
And makes me yield to them!

"Then art thou glad to seek repose?
Art glad to leave the sea,
And anchor all thy weary woes
In calm Eternity?

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War

I

There is no picturesqueness and no glory,
    No halo of romance, in war to-day.
    It is a hideous thing; Time would turn grey
With horror, were he not already hoary
At sight of this vile monster, foul and gory.
    Yet while sweet women perish as they pray,
    And new-born babes are slaughtered, who dare say
'Halt!' till Right pens its 'Finis' to the story!
There is no pathway, but the path through blood,
    Out of the horrors of this holocaust.
Hell has let loose its scalding crimson flood,
    And he who stops to argue now is lost.
Not brooms of creeds, not Pacifistic words
Can stem the tide, but swords - uplifted swords!

II

Yet, after Peace has turned the clean white page
    There shall be sorrow on the earth for years;
 ...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In the Turret.

(March, 1862.)


Your honest heart of duty, Worden,
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Escaped the gale of outer ocean -
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Was washed by every billow's motion -
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