The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner

A Trumpeter, prisoner made,
Hoped his life would be spared when he said
He'd no part in the fight,
But they answered him--"Right,
But what of the music you made?"

Songs May Serve A Cause As Well As Swords

Walter Crane

Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator, considered to be one of the most prolific and influential children's book creators of his generation. Born on August 15, 1845, and passing away on March 14, 1915, he was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and is known for his innovative contributions to children's literature. His work often combined art and poetry, aiming to educate and delight young readers.

Walter Crane

The Two Crabs

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Fox Without A Tail

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

Gefunden

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Miser & His Gold

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

English

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Flourish Of Trumpets.

        Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
        The war-steed's wakening ears!--
    Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
    And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
    Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
    With valor's fever at the sound.
    See, from his native hills afar
    The rude Helvetian flies to war;
    Careless for what, for whom he fights,
    For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
        A conqueror oft--a hero never--
    Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
    As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
        And gushed forever!

        Yes, Music, here, even here,
    Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.--
    There's a wild air wh...

Thomas Moore

The Minstrel-Boy.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
    In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on.
    And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
    "Tho' all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
    "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain
    Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
    For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
    "Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
    "They shall never sound in slavery."

Thomas Moore

The Two Jars

"Never fear!" said The Brass to the Clay
Of two Jars that the flood bore away:
"Keep you close to my side!"
But the porcelain replied,
"I'll be smashed if beside you I stay."

Our Friend Our Enemy

Walter Crane

To A Certain Cantatrice

Here, take this gift!
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General,
One who should serve the good old cause, the great Idea, the progress and freedom of the race;
Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;
But I see that what I was reserving, belongs to you just as much as to any.

Walt Whitman

Hymn For Music, After The Battle Of Waterloo.

Perish! Almighty Justice cried,
And struck the avenging blow,
And Europe shouts from side to side,
The tyrant is laid low!
Said not his heart, More blood shall stream
Around my sovereign throne?
He wakes from dire ambition's dream,
Pale, trembling, and alone.

ARIA WITH CHORUS.

Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

Sad mother, weep no more thy children slain;
The trumpets and the battle clangours cease:
Uplift to heaven the loud, the grateful strain,
And hail the dawn of Freedom and of Peace.

CHORUS.

Triumph! the rescued nations cry,
Triumph! ten thousand hearts reply.

ARIA.

For joy returned, for peace restored,
Lord of all worlds, to thee we raise,
While Slaughte...

William Lisle Bowles

Sadowa - July 1866.

Wet, cheerless was our bivouac last eve, but still we spoke
Of fighting and of winning, to-morrow, when day broke:
That day the thundering echoes of cannon in our front
Had louder grown until around had raged the battle's brunt
At last the carnage ended, and our regiment's retreat
Was marked by many wounded, who shrieked beneath our feet!
But here in closer order rides past a Lancer Troop--
They had but late been charging like falcons when they swoop.
How few there are remaining! Now the river's bank is gained;
The Trumpeter's white charger with blood on neck is stained.
His snowy flanks are heaving; he shudders on the brink,
Then, gently urged, he halts again, and stoops his head to drink.
He cannot ford the river, for lost are strength and speed:
The Trumpeter, dismounted,...

John Campbell