Horatius

Since I can't seem to make myself keep a consistent blog going, I've decided to make it fresh by posting a poem a month. I suppose you could say that this one is the poem for June - war poems and bright summer sunshine go so well together, don't you think? Unfortunately these poems will not be written by me, they're just some of my very favorites. This one is especially brilliant. Enjoy!

Horatius

By Thomas Babbington Macaulay

Lars Porsena of Closium
By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon his array.


East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet's blast.
The horsemen and the footmen

Are pouring in amain

From many a stately market place,

From many a fruitful plain;

And now hath every city
Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,
The horse are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium
Is met the great array.
A proud man was Lars Porsena
Upon the trysting day.


But by the yellow Tiber
Was tumult and affright:
From all the spacious champaign
To Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city,
The throng stopped up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to see
Through two long nights and days.

Then outspake brave Horatius.

The captain of the gate:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds?

For the ashes of his fathers

And the temples of his gods?

"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"


Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:
"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."


"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
"As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
Now, while the Three were tightening

Their harness on their backs,

The Consul was the foremost one

To take in hand an axe;

And Fathers mixed with Commons

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,

And smote upon the planks above,

And loosed the props below.


Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Come flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before that mighty mass;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow pass;


Aunus from green Tifernum,
Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
O'er the pale waves of Nar.


Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery thrust;
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.

But now no sound of laughter
Was heard among the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamor
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' lengths from the entrance
Halted that mighty mass,
And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow pass.


But hark! the cry is Astur:
And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great Lord of Luna
Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
Which none but he can wield.


He smiled on those bold Romans
A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"


Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.


He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one breathing-space;
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet
So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out
Behind the Tuscan's head.


And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
A thunder smitten oak:
Far o'er the crashing forest
The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.


On Astur's throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.
"And see," he cried, "the welcome,
Fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucomo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?"


But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
"Come back, come back, Horatius!"
Loud cried the Fathers all.
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!"


Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back:
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.


But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.


Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face.
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena,
"Now yield thee to our grace."


Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.

"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.


No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges,
They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.


And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers;
To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate
Borne by the joyous crowd.

The Joy of the World

I have always loved painting, drawing, and photography, and I was thrilled when I discovered the phenomenal photographer, Anne Geddes. She makes her living by doing portraits of babies. You might have heard of her (as I did) through Celine Dion's lullaby album, Miracle, that was released in (I think this is correct) '05. Geddes did all of the artwork for the album, as well as a coffee table book that went with it, which was filled with images of babies nestled in flowers. It's some of the most breathtakingly beautiful art I've ever seen, and that's saying the least. 

Mama got a new coffee table book of Gedde's the other day. It's actually her autobiography, but there are pictures that she's taken during her career all throughout it. Reading and looking through the book has inspired me to post some of her pictures on my blog, just for all of you who have never seen any of her work. It perfectly represents the innocence and beauty of God's greatest creation.

These two are from Miracle. What beauty.

Flawlessly poetic.

There's so much peace and gentle strength in this picture.

It's so colorful.

These next three are so cute!

A little flower angel.

I hope you enjoy these pictures as much as I do.  What miracles of joy!

Gretchen

The Eternal Goodness

O friends! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument;
Your logic linked and strong
I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds:
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not
The poor device of man.
I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod;
I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.
Ye praise His justice; even such
His pitying love I deem:
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss;
I hear our Lord’s beatitudes
And prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know:
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies,
I feel the guilt within;
I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed trust my spirit clings;
I know that God is good!
Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him
Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above,
I know not of His hate,—I know
His goodness and His love.
I dimly guess from blessings known
Of greater out of sight,
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own
His judgments too are right.
I long for household voices gone,
For vanished smiles I long,
But God hath led my dear ones on,
And He can do no wrong.
I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruisëd reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.
And so beside the Silent Sea
I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.
I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.
O brothers! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain
The sure and safer way.
And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My human heart on Thee! by John Greenleaf Whittier

Staining in the Sunshine

For the past several days we have had really wonderfully beautiful weather. It was bitingly cold for a few months, and then all of a sudden it feels like April. It's one of the reasons I love Nashville, the weather is never always cold, and never always hot in the seasons.

I have been extremely thankful for the weather, not only because it's just plain pleasant, but also because I've had cause to be outside a lot lately. My family is in the (very long) process of remaking two rooms of our house into a studio. It's been a month and a half or so project, full of sawdust and tearing out of ceilings - and other very pleasant things. My part in this whole affair can be summed up in two words, staining wood. I've never stained before in my whole life, but am now a pro (not really, i just like to think that, keeps my self esteem up =). I think I've stained around thirty to forty planks of wood within the last three days - and still have more to go. And so you see, there is great cause for rejoicing in the lovely weather.

My brother Benjamin informed me that Mr. Groundhog (I forgot the little fellow's name, it's really ugly and long) has predicted a four month long winter. I was very glad to scoff at the idea, considering the sunshine and mild breeze - but.... I was told not long after that we're expecting ice storms here in Nashville not long from now. Very pleasant prospect. Oh well, I suppose you have to take the bad along with the good. It's also supposed to rain tomorrow. And so saying, I'd better go hit the planks once again.

Gretchen

The Origin of Origins

In studying the book of Genesis, and reading 'The Genesis Record' by Henry M. Morris as a study guide along with it, a new thought has been brought to my attention that fits like a puzzle piece with my earlier post, God and the gods. Morris talks on the subject below in his book, but since not everyone who reads this post will read the book, I thought I would put it down here. 

The first sentence of the Bible, "In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth." is undoubtedly the most read paragraph in all of history. The Bible is the oldest book that we have, and the most printed. Everyone who picks up the Bible reads at least that first line, whether or not they go any further. And so, we can safely say that that sentence has been read more than any other in any book. It never struck me until reading The Genesis Record that the Bible doesn't open with proving God, but opens with that simple phrase, taking it for granted that God exists. God was so close to the writer, (so close in fact that it could have been God Himself) that the he wrote the account of the Creation with an overwhelming sense of God and His, if you will, realness. 

I believe that Genesis (besides the Gospels) is the richest book in the Bible. It lays down in stone (literally) the Creation and Beginning of the Universe; and in doing that completely disproves every other kind of disbelief: Atheism, Pantheism, Dualism, etc. And furthermore, it is the only book that has a believable answer for the question, "Where have we come from?" No Scientology nonsense about martians from outer space and the process of evolution, taken from a space novel. The very fact that Genesis is the oldest book that we have, and the fact that it is so plainspoken and records the Beginning without the least hesitation, should be enough for us to believe too. It's certainly easier to believe in than martians and spaceships, and an evolutionary cycle that we have no proof of. If we could just shed our chokingly skeptical mindset and worldview, and return to the child's simple trust and faith in things unseen, than maybe we could understand more fully the things of God, and what his purpose is for us.

Gretchen

A Lark Ascending

If you've never heard of the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, I pity you. He lived from 1872 to 1958, making his living by writing symphonies, chamber music, opera, choral music, and film scores. He has written pieces such as, Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, and The Lark Ascending. For some reason every time I hear either of these pieces, I want to cry. There's a welling up of emotion in my soul that is so hard to describe, but it overflows my heart and makes me feel like I'm going to burst. Why does it make me feel like that? It could be the combination of a heart-wrenchingly gorgeous melody and performance, or it could just be that I'm a terribly romantic and emotional person (which I kind of am), or it could be both of those things - and something else. What is that something else? You tell me. But it's something that touches the very root of my soul, a something that reaches deep down and touches a place that no other art can. I believe that this feeling cannot be brought  by any kind of music but Classical, and that is why I believe it is superior to all other genres. It evokes feelings that Popular music never can, and never will. 

Gretchen 

God and the gods

In reading through the Old Testament it has struck me how everyone in that time period believed in God, or a god. They even believed in a god that they didn't serve. The Babylonians worshiped Baal and others, and yet when they talk about Israel they always speak of the God of Israel as a god just as real and worshipful as theirs. There is such a gigantic difference between their way of thinking, and todays way, where most people don't believe in any god, true or false.

In Bible times people were much more open to mysterious thoughts and ways of thinking than we are today. Take the Greeks for example, they had hundreds of gods and demigods, and didn't think twice about it; of course all of their gods were false, and it can be argued whether or not they were actually demons, but still they believed in them wholeheartedly. Today's world is so full of steel and metal and science that it has choked out most of the healthy amount of belief in things unseen. The more knowledgeable we become in the arts of science and architecture, the more we become illiterate and idiotic in the spiritual things - and then when someone thinks that they've found the answer to the spiritual questions it's always some babble about Buddha and finding the perfect spirit within yourself. Humanity has even become so spiritually blind and dumb as to think that this magnificent Creation was made by a fluke of a chemical reaction. Here's a question - where did those chemicals come from? Answer that for starters.

Every day I wake up and am overwhelmed by the splendor of God and the magnificence of what He's made. He is the Beginning and the End, and He has made all things.

Gretchen