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Book V: Ethandune, the First Stroke

King Guthrum was a dread king,
Like death out of the north;
Shrines without name or number
He rent and rolled as lumber,
From Chester to the Humber
He drove his foemen forth.

The Roman villas heard him
In the valley of the Thames,
Come over the hills roaring
Above their roofs, and pouring
On spire and stair and flooring
Brimstone and pitch and flames.

Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands
And the hill of the Horse went he,
Till high on Hampshire beacons
He saw the southern sea.

High on the heights of Wessex

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poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Ballad of the White Horse (1911)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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It's The Little Things

You can burn my house
You can cut my hair
You can make me wrestle naked
With a grizzly bear
You can poison my cat
Baby I don't care
But if you talk in the movies
I'll kill you right there

It's the little things
It's just the little things
Aw it's the little things
It's just the little things
Yeah it's the little things
That drive me wild

I'm like a mad dog
I'm on a short leash
I'm on a tight rope
Hanging by a thread

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song performed by Alice Cooper from Brutal Planet
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Tomb Of The Unknown Love

One time I drove to see a girl across the country
One night as I was driving through to Mexico
I had the windows wide open
It was cold and I was crying
And I later laid her on the radio
Then I stopped that side of Tahoe
thru this tiny mining town
At a diner to be filled for the ride
And in the wind I heard this crying
Like a heart broke cried a tune
I turned my collar up and went inside.
Well, I saw this smiling waitress
Joshing friendly with these truckers
That give her pats and she gives them shoves
I said: Miss, watch that awful crying.
Everybody laughed and said:
Its the tomb of the unknown love.
And then they pointed out the window to this stone
All by myself, beneath the tree, beside the hill
And on that winter night

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song performed by Kenny Rogers
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Stanzas To the Memory Of George III

'Among many nations was there no King like him.' –Nehemiah, xiii, 26.
'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' – 2 Samuel, iii, 38.

ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,
Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.

Vain voice of Reason, hush!–they yet must flow,
The unrestrained, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third

'Among many nations was there no King like him.' -Nehemiah, xiii, 26.
'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' - 2 Samuel, iii, 38.
ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,
Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.

Vain voice of Reason, hush!-they yet must flow,
The unrestrained, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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O My Mother, O My Father

O my mother, O my father,
I stand at this Y in the road,
the hybrid son of an angel and a demon,
two halves of the same chromosome
splitting like the left side of my brain
as a squad car took, you, my father, to jail,
and you, my mother, my right half,
were rushed in an ambulance,
a bruised and battered rose to emergency
as if you'd just barely survived
a hailstorm of meters intent
on making your species extinct.
And it was hard to tell if flesh of my flesh
blood of my blood meant the same as
flesh upon flesh with a dull thud
upon the untempered anvil of a child's heart,
or not. So is it any wonder
when you split the atom that day between you
like Charles Manson and Mother Theresa
and our nuclear family turned out to be

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poem by Patrick White
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Book IV: The Woman in the Forest

Thick thunder of the snorting swine,
Enormous in the gloam,
Rending among all roots that cling,
And the wild horses whinnying,
Were the night's noises when the King
Shouldering his harp, went home.

With eyes of owl and feet of fox,
Full of all thoughts he went;
He marked the tilt of the pagan camp,
The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp,
And the one great stolen altar-lamp
Over Guthrum in his tent.

By scrub and thorn in Ethandune
That night the foe had lain;
Whence ran across the heather grey
The old stones of a Roman way;
And in a wood not far away
The pale road split in twain.

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poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Ballad of the White Horse (1911)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Saint Maura: A.D. 304

Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last!
The guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!
Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!
Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly! Oh say,
Say you forgive me! No-you must not speak:
You said it to me hours ago-long hours!
Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;
And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,
To show them that the Son of God endured

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poem by Charles Kingsley
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New Song

You need a new song
You need a new song
Ill set the words up so they tear right at your soul
Ill set the words up so they tear right at your soul
Dont take me too long
Dont take me too long
But theres a danger that Ill plagiarize something old
But theres a danger that Ill plagiarize something old
My fingers kill me as I play my guitar
My fingers kill me as I play my guitar
cause Ive been chewing down at my nails
cause Ive been chewing down at my nails
My hairline aint exactly superstar
My hairline aint exactly superstar
But theres one thing that never fails
But theres one thing that never fails
This never fails
This never fails
I write the same old song with a few new lines
I write the same old song with a few new lines

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song performed by Who
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 12: Witches' Sabbath

Now, when the moon slid under the cloud
And the cold clear dark of starlight fell,
He heard in his blood the well-known bell
Tolling slowly in heaves of sound,
Slowly beating, slowly beating,
Shaking its pulse on the stagnant air:
Sometimes it swung completely round,
Horribly gasping as if for breath;
Falling down with an anguished cry . . .
Now the red bat, he mused, will fly;
Something is marked, this night, for death . . .
And while he mused, along his blood
Flew ghostly voices, remote and thin,
They rose in the cavern of his brain,
Like ghosts they died away again;
And hands upon his heart were laid,
And music upon his flesh was played,
Until, as he was bidden to do,
He walked the wood he so well knew.
Through the cold dew he moved his feet,

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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