The Tory: Perspectives And Poems: Dr Pratt Datta

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/902/902-h/902-h.htm#page1

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/902/902-h/902-h.htm#page1

To a Reason BY ARTHUR RIMBAUD TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY JOHN ASHBERY A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.       A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.      You look away: the new love!      You look back,—the new love!      “Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you.      Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.

A Verse for Napoleon Pratim Datta On a day, year 69, 17 hundred, Was born a petit Corsican, whom the world would dread! 20 years later when La Bastille fell, Napoleon's star rose, First Republic served him well! A general at 24, bless the siege of Toulon, Robespierre’s blessing against the grand coalition; Leading the charge of armée d’Italy, Won Piedmont, Castilloni, and Rivoli! Austrians did fold, to the Habsburgs he turned; Léoben, Campo Formio, Bavaria burned. Enveloping his enemies in sixty wars, Pristine victories and Europe in scars! Egypt was next, deprive Brits of trade! Battle of the pyramids and Mamluks dead! Napoleonic ambitions saw a dusk fall on dawn, Trafalgar nemesis, Admiral Nelson!! Returning to Paris as the first consul, The republic gave France an emperor the rule! From Amiens, Ulm, to Austerlitz, La grandé armée crossed the Rhine in a Blitz! 1808 began the Russian March, Berezina, Borodino, where winters are harsh, In Leipzig cane his next big defeat, Abdicated to Elba, in retreat

Auguries of Innocence (continued) William Blake He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar  The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat  Feed them & thou wilt grow fat  The Gnat that sings his Summers Song Poison gets from Slanders tongue  The poison of the Snake & Newt Is the sweat of Envys Foot  The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artists Jealousy The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags  A Truth thats told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent  It is right it should be so  Man was made for Joy & Woe  And when this we rightly know  Thro the World we safely go  Joy & Woe are woven fine  A Clothing for the soul divine  Under every grief & pine Runs a joy with silken twine  The Babe is more than swadling Bands Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made & Born were hands  Every Farmer Understands Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity  This is caught by Females bright And returnd to its own delight  The Bleat the

Auguries of Innocence In two Parts: Part ! BY WILLIAM BLAKE   To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower  Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand  And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage  A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr' all its regions  A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State  A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood  Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear  A Skylark wounded in the wing  A Cherubim does cease to sing  The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright  Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul  The wild deer, wandring here & there  Keeps the Human Soul from Care  The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife  The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the

The River's Tale Prehistoric   Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew-- (Twenty bridges or twenty-two)-- Wanted to know what the River knew, For they were young and the Thames was old, And this is the tale that the River told:--   "I WALK my beat before London Town, Five hour up and seven down. Up I go till I end my run At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington. Down I come with the mud in my hands And plaster it over the Maplin Sands. But I'd have you know that these waters of mine Were once a branch of the River Rhine, When hundreds of miles to the East I went And England was joined to the Continent.   "I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds, The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds, And the giant tigers that stalked them down Through Regent's Park into Camden Town. And I remember like yesterday The earliest Cockney who came my way, When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand, With paint on his face and a club in his hand. He was death to feather and fin and fur. He trapped my beavers at Westminster. He

A Death-Bed By Rudyard Kipling   1918   "This is the State above the Law.      The State exists for the State alone."  [This is a gland at the back of the jaw,      And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]    Some die shouting in gas or fire;      Some die silent, by shell and shot.  Some die desperate, caught on the wire;      Some die suddenly. This will not.    "Regis suprema voluntas Lex"      [It will follow the regular course of—throats.]  Some die pinned by the broken decks,      Some die sobbing between the boats.    Some die eloquent, pressed to death      By the sliding trench as their friends can hear.  Some die wholly in half a breath.      Some—give trouble for half a year.    "There is neither Evil nor Good in life.      Except as the needs of the State ordain."  [Since it is rather too late for the knife,      All we can do is mask the pain.]    Some die saintly in faith and hope—      Some die thus in a prison-yard—  Some die broken by rape or the rope;      Some die easily. This

"The Trade" By Rudyard Kipling   1914-18 (Sea Warfare)   They bear, in place of classic names,      Letters and numbers on their skin.  They play their grisly blindfold games      In little boxes made of tin.      Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,  Sometimes they learn where mines are laid,      Or where the Baltic ice is thin.  That is the custom of "The Trade."    Few prize-courts sit upon their claims.      They seldom tow their targets in.  They follow certain secret aims      Down under, far from strife or din.      When they are ready to begin  No flag is flown, no fuss is made      More than the shearing of a pin.  That is the custom of "The Trade."    The Scout's quadruple funnel flames      A mark from Sweden to the Swin,  The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims      Her comings out and goings in:      But only whiffs of paraffin  Or creamy rings that fizz and fade      Show where the one-eyed Death has been.  That is the custom of "The Trade."    Their feats, their fortunes and their fa

"For All We Have And Are" By Rudyard Kipling   1914   For all we have and are,  For all our children's fate,  Stand up and take the war.  The Hun is at the gate!  Our world has passed away,  In wantonness o'erthrown.  There is nothing left to-day  But steel and fire and stone!       Though all we knew depart,       The old Commandments stand:—       "In courage kept your heart,       In strength lift up your hand."    Once more we hear the word  That sickened earth of old:—  "No law except the Sword  Unsheathed and uncontrolled."  Once more it knits mankind,  Once more the nations go  To meet and break and bind  A crazed and driven foe.    Comfort, content, delight,  The ages' slow-bought gain,  They shrivelled in a night.  Only ourselves remain  To face the naked days  In silent fortitude,  Through perils and dismays  Renewed and re-renewed.       Though all we made depart,       The old Commandments stand:—       "In patience keep your heart,       In strength lift up your hand."    No easy hope o

Ode on a Grecian Urn  by John Keats Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,        Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express        A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape        Of deities or mortals, or of both,                In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?        What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?                What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?   Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard        Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,        Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave        Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;                Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,                For ever wilt thou love, and she b

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death by William Butler Yeats   I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public man, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by William Butler Yeats Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Death by William Butler Yeats Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died, Many times rose again, A great man in his pride Confronting murderous men Casts derision upon Supersession of breath; He knows death to the bone – Man has created death.

Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats   Turning and turning in the widening gyre     The falcon cannot hear the falconer;     Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;     Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,     The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere     The ceremony of innocence is drowned;     The best lack all conviction, while the worst     Are full of passionate intensity.     Surely some revelation is at hand;     Surely the Second Coming is at hand.     The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out     When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi     Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;     A shape with lion body and the head of a man,     A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,     Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it     Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.     The darkness drops again but now I know     That twenty centuries of stony sleep     Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,     And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,     Slouches towards

To a Reason By Arthur Rimbaud  Translated from French by John Ashbery  A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony. A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders. You look away: the new love! You look back,—the new love! “Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you. Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.

Richard II Soliloquy by Shakespeare   No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, Let's choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks, Infusing him with self

If by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long

My Young Son Asks Me... by Bertolt Brecht Translated by Burch My young son asks me: Must I learn mathematics? What is the use, I feel like saying. That two pieces Of bread are more than one's about all you'll end up with. My young son asks me: Must I learn French? What is the use, I feel like saying. This State's collapsing. And if you just rub your belly with your hand and Groan, you'll be understood with little trouble. My young son asks me: Must I learn history? What is the use, I feel like saying. Learn to stick Your head in the earth, and maybe you'll still survive. Yes, learn mathematics, I tell him. Learn your French, learn your history!