Kitchener

No stone is set to mark his nations loss,
No stately tomb enshrines his noble breast;
Not een the tribute of a wooden cross
Can mark this heros rest.

He needs them not, his name untarnished stands,
Remindful of the mighty deeds he worked,
Footprints of one, upon times changeful sands,
Who neer his duty shirked.

Who follows in his steps no danger shuns,
Nor stoops to conquer by a shameful deed,
An honest and unselfish race he runs,
From fear and malice freed.

Eric Blair

Eric Arthur Blair, known by his pen name George Orwell, was an English novelist, essayist, journalist and critic. He is best known for his allegorical novella 'Animal Farm' and the dystopian novel '1984'. Orwell's work is marked by lucid prose, awareness of social injustice, opposition to totalitarianism, and outspoken support of democratic socialism.

Eric Blair

The Lesser Evil

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

The Pagan

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

Ironic Poem About Prostitution

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young

Eric Blair, Simple Poetry

English

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Awake! Young Men of England

Oh! give me the strength of the Lion,
The wisdom of reynard the Fox
And then Ill hurl troops at the Germans
And give them the hardest of knocks.

Oh! think of the War Lords mailed fist,
That is striking at England today:
And think of the lives that our soldiers
Are fearlessly throwing away.

Awake! Oh you young men of England,
For if, when your Countrys in need,
You do not enlist by the thousand,
You truly are cowards indeed.

Eric Blair

Killed In Action

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend;
"Only surviving son of" - so it ran -
"Beloved husband" and the rest of it.
But six months back I saw him full of life,
Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease
In some obscure but splendid field of France,
His strivings over and his conflicts done.
He was a fellow of most joyous moods
And quaint contrivings, ever on the point
Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand
But always baulked of meeting them at last.
He could not brook - and always so declared -
The weak pomposities of little men,
Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,
And plunged headlong into imprudences,
And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,
Holding his luck and not himself to blame
For aught that might betide when reckoning came.
Bu...

R. C. Lehmann

A Hero.

    The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, -
    How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die.
    Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
    And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry;
    His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
    Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
    When he survives to serve his Land aright
    And make his fame the watchword of the sky.
    In all our hopes his love is with us still;
    He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.
    His acts are just; his word we must believe,
    And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
    To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. -
    Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!

Eric Mackay

Ode On The Death Of The Duke of Wellington

1852

I.

Bury the Great Duke
With an empires lamentation;
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation;
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warriors pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.


II.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?
Here, in streaming Londons central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.


III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long, long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.


IV.

Mourn,...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Patriotism 2: Nelson, Pitt, Fox

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons, Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levin,

Walter Scott

Nelson, Pitt, Fox

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Countrys wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
    The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britains weal,
The hand that graspd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps oer Nelsons shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons, Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levi...

Walter Scott