245 Years Ago Tonight: Paul Revere's Ride!

Hello everyone –



In addition to the sacred festivals that dance through different dates on the calendar each year, the month of April also has a patriotic holiday dedicated to the remembrance of the epoch-making events that led to the founding of our nation 244 years ago. In this edition of Quotemail, I am featuring poems about Patriots’ Day, a New England observance that takes place on the third Monday of April. In these memorable verses, both Longfellow and Emerson – two New England poets – commemorate the first battle of the American Revolution on April 19, 1775, and the significant adventure leading up to it on the night before – 245 years ago TONIGHT!



“Paul Revere’s Ride” (1860)

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)



Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.



“Concord Hymn” (1837)

By Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)



By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and Thee.



You can watch an animated music video based on this poem (Schoolhouse Rock’s “The Shot Heard Round the World”) @ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6ikO6LMxF4.



ADDENDUM: “The Liberty Tree” (1775)

By Thomas Paine (1737-1809)

Editor’s Note: This poem was written to “rally the troops” and garner support for the American Revolution after British troops chopped down the “Liberty Tree” that stood near Boston Commons in 1775. The 129-year-old tree, after its death, became a powerful symbol for the Continental Army and was displayed on numerous American flags throughout the Revolution.



1. In a chariot of light from the regions of day,

The goddess of Liberty came,

Ten thousand celestials directed her way,

And hither conducted the dame.

A fair budding branch from the gardens above,

Where millions with millions agree,

She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,

And the plant she named Liberty Tree.



2. The celestial exotic stuck deep in the ground,

Like a native it flourished and bore;

The fame of its fruit drew the nations around

To seek out this peaceable shore.

Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,

For freemen like brothers agree;

With one Spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,

And their temple was Liberty Tree.



3. But hear, O ye swains (‘tis a tale most profane),

How all the tyrannical powers,

Kings, Commons, and Lords, are uniting amain

To cut down this guardian of ours.

From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,

Through the land let the sound of it flee:

Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,

In defense of our Liberty Tree.



Enjoy the springtime weather outside this weekend! :)



Until next time –

Rob

700th Anniversary of the Scottish Declaration of Independence

Hello everyone –



I deliberately saved this edition of Quotemail for today – Monday, April 6^th, 2020 – to commemorate the 700^th anniversary of the signing of the Scottish Declaration of Independence, which took place on this date in 1320. In honor of this historic occasion, I’d like to share with you the text of an article that I wrote for the Illinois Administrative Professionals’ newsletter in November 2014, based on a classic poem about King Robert the Bruce of Scotland, who (like us) was facing a rather daunting situation – and never gave up – and won – as we shall likewise do against our current foe, the coronavirus.



SO SAY WE ALL! J





Leadership Reflection for November 2014

If at First You Don’t Succeed – Try, Try Again

By Rob Chappell, M.A., Assistant to the ACES Honors Dean






November 1^st marks the beginning of the Keltik New Year, so in honor of this auspicious occasion, I’d like to share with you a traditional Keltik legend about patience and perseverance in leadership, which illustrates the famous couplet:



“If at first you don’t succeed,

Try, try again.”

à William Edward Hickson (1803–1870)



Robert the Bruce (1274-1329) had been crowned King of Scotland in 1306, at a time when his country was fighting for its independence from the overlordship of England and its King, Edward II. The War for Scottish Independence lasted for more than a generation, and during the protracted conflict, numerous atrocities were perpetrated against the Scottish people, their institutions, and their country’s infrastructure by English forces. King Robert had fought bravely against the English invaders, but after losing a series of six battles, he was tempted to despair. A hunted man, he fled from one hiding place to the next, trying to figure out his next move. One day, while hiding in a hut, his whole outlook was changed by an encounter with a spider.



“Bruce and the Spider”

By Bernard Barton (1784-1849)



For Scotland’s and for freedom’s right

The Bruce his part has played; --

In five successive fields of fight

Been conquered and dismayed:

Once more against the English host

His band he led, and once more lost

The meed for which he fought;

And now from battle, faint and worn,

The homeless fugitive, forlorn,

A hut’s lone shelter sought.



And cheerless was that resting-place

For him who claimed a throne; --

His canopy, devoid of grace,

The rude, rough beams alone;

The heather couch his only bed --

Yet well I ween had slumber fled

From couch of eider down!

Through darksome night till dawn of day,

Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay

Of Scotland and her crown.



The Sun rose brightly, and its gleam

Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam

Which roofed the lowly shed;

When, looking up with wistful eye,

The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot --

And well the insect’s toilsome lot

Taught Scotland’s future King.



Six times the gossamery thread

The wary spider threw; --

In vain the filmy line was sped,

For powerless or untrue

Each aim appeared, and back recoiled

The patient insect, six times foiled,

And yet unconquered still;

And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,

Saw him prepare once more to try

His courage, strength, and skill.



One effort more, his seventh and last! --

The hero hailed the sign! --

And on the wished-for beam hung fast

That slender silken line!

Slight as it was, his spirit caught

The more than omen; for his thought

The lesson well could trace,

Which even “he who runs may read,”

That Perseverance gains its meed,

And Patience wins the race.


At the Battle of Bannockburn (1314), King Robert won a decisive victory over the English invaders, secured the throne of Scotland for himself, and guaranteed sovereignty for the Scottish people. Six years later, on April 6^th, 1320, King Robert and the Scottish nobles promulgated the Scottish Declaration of Independence to announce to the family of nations that Scotland would remain a free and independent country. This document (also known as the Declaration of Arbroath) would later inspire the Founding Fathers of the United States to adopt their own Declaration of Independence at Philadelphia on July 4^th, 1776. J



Note: The full text of the Scottish Declaration of Independence can be read online (http://www.nas.gov.uk/about/090401.asp) from the National Archives of Scotland (in the original Latin, with an English translation).





Until next time – stay strong and well! J

Rob

Spring Equinox 2020

Hello everyone –



Editor’s Note: Quotemail will continue to be distributed every other Friday, in order to bring some encouragement and edutainment to my subscribers. Please stay safe and healthy, follow all directions given by the public health authorities, and (as my grandmother would often remind me) wash your hands! J





The peoples of the ancient world looked forward to the arrival of springtime just as much as we do in our technomagical age. The Vernal Equinox, which marks the official beginning of springtime in the Northern Hemisphere, arrived @ 10:50 PM (CDT) yesterday! :) Here are some poems (with commentary) to help you celebrate the changing of the seasons.





Celebrating Springtime with Orphic Poetry

By Rob Chappell (Reprinted from Cursus Honorum’s March 2007 Issue)

                The annual cycle of the seasons and its effects on our natural surroundings are recurring themes throughout world literature. The Orphic poets – a guild of ancient Greek philosopher-bards named after their legendary founder, Orpheus – celebrated the changing of the seasons, the wonders of the natural world, and their lofty ideals in poetic chants, several dozen of which were preserved in written form after centuries of oral transmission. In the poetic forms of their prescientific age (ca. 1000-500 BCE), the Orphic poets chose to personify the forces of Nature, the celestial orbs, and abstract ideals in order to explain how and why the natural world and the human social order function in the ways that they do.

                Here is an example of Orphic poetry to welcome in the springtime – a poem to the seasons (here personified as the daughters of Zeus/Jupiter):



Orphic Hymn #42: “To the Seasons”

(Translated by Thomas Taylor, 1792)

Daughters of Jove and Themis, Seasons bright,

Justice, and blessed peace, and lawful right,

Vernal and grassy, vivid, holy powers,

Whose balmy breath exhales in lovely flowers;

All-colored Seasons, rich increase your care,

Circling forever, flourishing and fair:

Invested with a veil of shining dew,

A flowery veil delightful to the view:

Attending Proserpine, when back from night,

The Fates and Graces lead her up to light;

When in a band harmonious they advance,

And joyful round her form the solemn dance:

With Ceres triumphing, and Jove divine,

Propitious come, and on our incense shine;

Give Earth a blameless store of fruits to bear,

And make a novel mystic’s life your care.



“Orpheus” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Orpheus with his lute made trees

And the mountain tops that freeze

Bow themselves when he did sing:

To his music plants and flowers

Ever sprung; as Sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,

Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads and then lay by.

In sweet music is such art,

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.



Further Reading on the Orphic Tradition

•       The extant collection of Orphic Hymns is archived @ http://www.sacred-texts.com/cla/hoo/index.htm.

•       The Middle English poem Sir Orfeo – a Keltified retelling of the Greek legend of Orpheus – is available (with annotations) @ http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/teams/orfeo.htm.

•       The Derveni Papyrus (composed in Greek during the 4th century BCE and discovered in 1962) contains an Orphic poem and an esoteric commentary based on Orphic philosophy (see http://www.crystalinks.com/derveni_papyrus.html).





“O Nobilissima Viriditas” (“O Very Noble Greenness”)

Latin Text from Hildegard of Bingen’s Symphonia, Translated by Rob Chappell

                Editor’s Note: Magistra Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179) was a natural philosopher, pharmacologist, musician, and artist who disseminated her teachings about viriditas (the vivifying “greenness” in Nature) through her extensive Latin writings, which included scientific texts, medical treatises, and polyphonic musical compositions. In “O Nobilissima Viriditas,” Hildegard identifies the source of viriditas as something “rooted in the Sun” – that is, in the life-giving energies radiating from our parent star that make life possible on Earth. In modern scientific terms, we would say that solar radiation is the catalyst for photosynthesis in green plants, which form the base of the food chain.



O nobilissima Viriditas, quae radicas in Sole,

Et quae in candida serenitate luces in rota,

Quam nulla terrena excellentia comprehendis!

Tu circumdata es amplexibus divinorum mysteriorum.

Tu rubes ut Aurora et ardes ut Solis flamma.



O very noble greenness, you are rooted in the Sun,

And you shine in bright serenity in a circle

That no terrestrial excellence comprehends!

You are enclosed by the embrace of divine mysteries.

You blush like the Dawn and burn like a flame of the Sun.





“Welcome to the Sun”

Anonymous – Collected in Scotland (19th Century)

                Editor’s Note: In the Germanic, Keltik, Baltic, and Slavic languages – as well as in Japanese – the Sun is feminine and the Moon is masculine.



Welcome to you, Sun of the seasons’ turning,

In your circuit of the high heavens;

Strong are your steps on the unfurled heights,

Glad Mother are you to the constellations.



You sink down into the ocean of want,

Without defeat, without scathe;

You rise up on the peaceful wave

Like a Queen in her maidenhood's flower.





Happy Vernal Equinox! J



Rob

Reminiscences of Homer

Hello everyone –

I’ve been doing a lot of reminiscing lately about Homer, the legendary epic poet of ancient Greece – thinking not only about the poems and tales ascribed to him, but also about Homer as a literary figure/character himself. As a Classics major at the University of Illinois during the late 1980s and early 1990s, Homer was an inspirational figure to me, because he was widely believed in antiquity to have been blind, and because I have lived all my life with low vision. I can recall giving a short talk about this topic at Allen Hall during my undergraduate years, but alas, the manuscript has perished. J

Here is a short introduction to Homeric studies by the Bostonian classicist Thomas Bulfinch, along with two poems about Homer by John Keats.

Except from Chapter 35 of The Age of Fable by Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867)

Homer, from whose poems of the Iliad and Odyssey we have taken the chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a wandering minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to place singing his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants, and dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers for support. Byron calls him “the blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle,” and a well-known epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace, says:

“Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.”

These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos, and Athens.

Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of believing that poems of such length could have been committed to writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or coins, and when no materials capable of containing such long productions were yet introduced into use. On the other hand, it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down from age to age by means of the memory alone. This is answered by the statement that there was a professional body of men, called Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and whose business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic legends.

The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be that the framework and much of the structure of the poems belong to Homer, but that there are numerous interpolations and additions by other hands.

The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B.C.

“To Homer” by John Keats (1795-1821)

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,

Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,

As one who sits ashore and longs perchance

To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.

So thou wast blind; -- but then the veil was rent,

For Jove uncurtained Heaven to let thee live,

And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,

And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;

Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,

And precipices show untrodden green,

There is a budding morrow in midnight,

There is a triple sight in blindness keen;

Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell

To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”

By John Keats

Editor’s Note: The Chapman here referred to is George Chapman (1559-1634), a British classical scholar, translator, and poet. His was the first complete English translation of the works attributed to Homer – the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Homeric Hymns.

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men

Looked at each other with a wild surmise —

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Until next time –

Rob J

Clear Winter Skies!

Hello everyone –

Can you imagine it? We’ve had five consecutive days of SUNSHINE in the midst of a damp & dreary winter here in East Central Illinois! It was great time to get outside and enjoy the sunny weather – and also a great time to have a look at the night-time sky! Here are some poems about wintertime and the stars – the winter stars are my favorites! J

FROM THE ORPHIC HYMNS

Editor’s Note: The annual cycle of the seasons and its effects on our natural surroundings are recurring themes throughout world literature. The Orphic poets – a guild of ancient Greek philosopher-bards named after their legendary founder, Orpheus – celebrated the changing of the seasons, the wonders of the natural world, and their lofty ideals in poetic chants, several dozen of which were preserved in written form after centuries of oral transmission. In the poetic forms of their prescientific age (ca. 1000-500 BCE), the Orphic poets chose to personify the forces of Nature, the celestial orbs, and abstract ideals in order to explain how and why the natural world and the human social order function in the ways that they do.

Orphic Hymn #6: To the Stars

With holy voice I call the stars on high,

Pure sacred lights and genii of the sky.

Celestial stars, the progeny of Night,

In whirling circles beaming far your light,

Refulgent rays around the heavens ye throw,

Eternal fires, the source of all below.

With flames significant of Fate ye shine,

And aptly rule for men a path divine.

In seven bright zones ye run with wandering flames,

And heaven and earth compose your lucid frames:

With course unwearied, pure and fiery bright

Forever shining through the veil of Night.

Hail twinkling, joyful, ever wakeful fires!

Propitious shine on all my just desires;

These sacred rites regard with conscious rays,

And end our works devoted to your praise.

Orphic Hymn #79: To the North Wind

Boreas, whose wintry blasts, terrific, tear

The bosom of the deep surrounding air;

Cold icy power, approach, and favoring blow,

And Thrace a while desert exposed to snow:

The misty station of the air dissolve,

With pregnant clouds, whose frames in showers resolve:

Serenely temper all within the sky,

And wipe from moisture, Aether's beauteous eye.

FROM THE POEMS OF H. P. LOVECRAFT (1890-1937)

Editor’s Note: H. P. Lovecraft is regarded by literary scholars as the “Edgar Allan Poe” of the 20^th century. He was an imaginative author of “weird fiction” – a genre that combines science fiction, fantasy, and horror – and also an accomplished poet. His work has inspired, among others, the creators/writers of Babylon 5 and Doctor Who.

“Polaris” (1920)

Slumber, watcher, till the spheres,

Six and twenty thousand years

Have revolved, and I return

To the spot where now I burn.

Other stars anon shall rise

To the axis of the skies;

Stars that soothe and stars that bless

With a sweet forgetfulness:

Only when my round is o’er

Shall the past disturb thy door.

Until next time – be sure to go outside or look out your favorite window on a winter evening, and enjoy the view!

Rob

Happy 211th Birthday, Father Abraham!

Hello everyone –

In this edition of Quotemail, we remember the 211th birthday of Abraham Lincoln on February 12th. President Lincoln is widely considered to be one of the “Founding Fathers” of the University of Illinois, which is celebrating its 153^rd birthday this year. Here are some favorite quotations about Father Abraham to commemorate his life and legacy.

“WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRAHAM”

Words by James Sloan Gibbons

Music by L. O. Emerson

1. We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more,

From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore.

We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear,

With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear.

We dare not look behind us but steadfastly before.

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS:

We are coming, we are coming our Union to restore,

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

2. If you look across the hilltops that meet the northern sky,

Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;

And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,

And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride;

And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour,

We are coming, father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

3. If you look up all our valleys where the growing harvests shine,

You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;

And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds ,

And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;

And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door,

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

CHORUS

4. You have called us, and we're coming by Richmond's bloody tide,

To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside;

Or from foul treason's savage group, to wrench the murderous blade;

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before,

We are coming, Father Abraham, 300,000 more!

CHORUS

Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) on Abraham Lincoln

Printed in the New York World – 1909

“Of all the great national heroes and statesmen of history Lincoln is the only real giant. Alexander, Frederick the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, Gladstone and even Washington stand in greatness of character, in depth of feeling and in a certain moral power far behind Lincoln. Lincoln was a man of whom a nation has a right to be proud; he was a Christ in miniature, a saint of humanity, whose name will live thousands of years in the legends of future generations. We are still too near to his greatness, and so can hardly appreciate his divine power; but after a few centuries more our posterity will find him considerably bigger than we do. His genius is still too strong and too powerful for the common understanding, just as the sun is too hot when its light beams directly on us.”

“Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight” (1914)

By Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us: — as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come; — the shining hope of Europe free:

The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

“Lincoln” by Vachel Lindsay

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,

That which is gendered in the wilderness

From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.

Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,

Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,

Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,

Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire —

Fire that freed the slave.

Happy Birthday, Father Abraham! J

Rob

Happy Lunar New Year 4718 on January 25th!

Hello everyone –

Tomorrow – Saturday, January 25^th – marks the beginning of the Lunar New Year in the traditional Chinese calendar. The New Year (or Spring Festival) usually occurs on the second New Moon after the Winter Solstice (December 21 or 22). This weekend, the Year of the Rat will begin as the Chinese calendar year 4718 dawns in East Asia and around the globe.

To celebrate the Lunar New Year, I have selected two poems for you to enjoy. “Ring Out, Wild Bells” is a New Year poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and “Kubla Khan” (by Samuel Taylor Coleridge) celebrates the splendor of medieval China under the aegis of Kublai Khan (reigned 1260-1294), the grandson of Genghis Khan.

“Ring Out, Wild Bells” (1850)

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

“Kubla Khan” a/k/a “Xanadu” (1816)

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As ever beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her daemon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced;

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me,

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Happy Lunar New Year to one and all!

Rob J