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Seventy-Six

What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman's iron hand!

Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest's heart.

Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold,--

As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God's creating breath,

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poem by William Cullen Bryant
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A Tribute To My Revered Father

My Father was a great teacher,
Good husband to my good Mother;
He taught his pupils very well;
In an old house, did he dwell.

Well he reared his children seven!
Lived for up to eight times ten;
His forehead sweat fell on the soil;
My Father so well, did he toil.

A man who possessed great talents;
And honesty par excellence;
Cheap Politics did he eschew;
This world hath seen but very few.

He lived in humble conditions;
A law-abiding citizen;
He gave us good education;
And raised us well in religion.

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poem by John Celes
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Towards a Corruption-free India

Cleanse the nation’s democracy;
Cleanse the nation’s bureaucracy;
Cleanse the nation’s polity;
Cleanse the nation’s authority.

Cleanse the nation’s systems’ machinery;
Cleanse the nation’s judiciary;
Cleanse the nation’s property;
Cleanse the nation’s ill-gotten money.

Let people’s power permeate the Parliament;
Let there be accountability of all citizens;
Let the poor and down-trodden be never ignored;
Let India become rejuvenated.

Bring back the wealth kept outside the land;
Enact laws for the welfare of the Motherland;
Act with responsibility and amity with all;
Console the aggrieved, comfort the dying.

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poem by John Celes
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The King Of England

In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed
Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night,
And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed
The rose imperial of our delight,
Then, even then, though no man cried 'He comes,'
And no man turned to greet him passing there,
With phantom heralds challenging renown
And silent-throbbing drums
I saw the King of England, hale and fair,
Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield
The lions bore the dint of many a lance,
And up and down his mantle's azure field
Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.
Before him went with banner floating wide
The yeoman breed that served his honour best,
And mixed with these his knights of noble blood;
But in the place of pride
His admirals in billowy lines abreast

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poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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60th Independence Day of India (An Acrostic)

I Love My Motherland India Because:

Integrity of the nation is paramount
No one is above the laws of the land
Democracy: largest and strongest in the world exists
Industries and industriousness reinforce each other
A’ll are given equal opportunities for development
Sanctity: sacred rivers like Ganges, Brahmaputra, Cauvery etc flow

Security: scientists, sages, seers have had their birth
Indianness, indigenization are of prime value
Xians, Muslims, Sikhs, Parsees, Jains, and others live in amity
Traditions and cultural heritage are mostly preserved
Intellectual resource is an unfathomable wealth
Education has been revitalized through mass media of communication in a big way
Togetherness of peoples has led to unity and harmony
Health: for all is through PHCs,

Internet is revolutionizing mass-education, transactions and
Neutrality makes India a most-friendly nation

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poem by John Celes
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For A Certain Critic

Let lowly themes engage my humble pen
Stupidities of critics, not of men.
Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace
Of the expounders' self-directed race
Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,
Of diligent vacuity the sign.
Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse
The moral meaning of the random verse
That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen
To be half-blotted by ambitious men
Who hope with his their meaner names to link
By writing o'er it in another ink
The thoughts unreal which they think they think,
Until the mental eye in vain inspects
The hateful palimpsest to find the text.

The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long
Sings to the dawning day his wanton song.
The moaning dove, attentive to the sound,
Its hidden meaning hastens to expound:

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Tricks of the light storypoem

He haunts the minstrel’s gallery
and she the great hall down below.
Theirs was a love which could not be.
Which grew into a tragedy.

She was by blood of noble birth
and he of lower yeoman stock.
Regarded as of lesser worth
by powers which then ruled the earth.

They knew that they could never wed
Although their love was strong and true.
She swore that until she was dead
she’d never grace a marriage bed

Her father thought he could demand
obedience from his wayward child.
When she refused his firm command.
He hanged the minstrel out of hand.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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That Rainy Day

THAT RAINY DAY
They prayed in unison
For the eluding rain
Long waited in despair
Staring at the horizon
Months passed without a sign
Testing their patience
Hot Sun heckled with a sneer
Night sky speckled
With moon and stars
Leered in ridicule
An old farmer averred
“We’re all cursed by the Goddess
To whom we shunned oblation
That was offered every annum”
Asserted one literate peasant
“It’s all green house effect”
Soon cried an yeoman in glee
“There in the skies! See! ”
Spotting a black nimbus

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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King Ryence's Challenge

As it fell out on a Pentecost day,
King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall,
With his faire queen dame Guenever the gay,
And many bold barons sitting in hall,
With ladies attired in purple and pall,
And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high,
Cryed, Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie.

A doughty dwarfe to the uppermost deas
Right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee;
With steven fulle stoute amids all the preas,
Say'd, 'Nowe Sir King Arthur, God save thee and see!
Sir Ryence of North-Gales greeteth well thee,
And bids thee thy beard anon to him send,
Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.

'For his robe of state is a rich scarlet mantle,
With eleven kings beards bordered about,
And there is room lefte yet in a kantle,
For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Immortal Strain

“Late Midshipman John Travers (Chester),
aged 16 years. He was mortally wounded
early in the action, yet he remained alone in
a most exposed post awaiting orders, with
his gun's crew dead all round him.”

We told old stories one by one,
Brave tales of men who toyed with death,
Of wondrous deeds of valor done
In days of bold Elizabeth.
“Alas! our British stock,” said we,
“Is not now what it used to be.”

We read of Drake's great sailors, or
Of fighting men that Nelson led,
Who steered the walls of oak to war.
“These were our finest souls,” we said.
“Their fame is on the ocean writ,
Nor time, nor storm may cancel it.

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poem by Edward George Dyson
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