Poems about palisade (21 Poems)


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    Coplas De Manrique (From The Spanish) (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems)

    O let the soul her slumbers break,Let thought be quickened, and awake;Awake to seeHow soon this life is past and gone,And death comes softly stealing on,How silently! Swiftly our pleasures glide away,Our hearts recall the distant dayWith many sighs;The moments … Continue reading



    The Garrison of Cape Ann (John Greenleaf Whittier Poems)

    From the hills of home forth looking, far beneath the tent-like spanOf the sky, I see the white gleam of the headland of Cape Ann.Well I know its coves and beaches to the ebb-tide glimmering down,And the white-walled hamlet children … Continue reading



    The Merrimac (John Greenleaf Whittier Poems)

    Stream of my fathers! sweetly stillThe sunset rays thy valley fill;Poured slantwise down the long defile,Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.I see the winding Powow foldThe green hill in its belt of gold,And following down its wavy line,Its sparkling … Continue reading



    Chronicle Of The Wars Between The English And The Scots (excerpt) (Jordan Fantosme Poems)

    Have you heard tell the news?The Earl of Leicester has turned traitor,And at Orwell has certainly landed.He has fleeced the people as though the land were his own;From thence to Dunwich, funds he has extorted by force.All young and old, … Continue reading



    Recitative (Harold Hart Crane Poems)

    Regard the capture here, 0 Janus-faced,As double as the hands that twist this glass.Such eves at search or rest you cannot see;Reciting pain or glee, how can you bear! Twin shadowed halves: the breaking, second holds t,In each the skin … Continue reading



    The Kalevala – Rune XXVI (Elias Lonnrot Poems)

    ORIGIN OF THE SERPENT. Ahti, living on the island,Near the Kauko-point and harbor,Plowed his fields for rye and barley,Furrowed his extensive pastures,Heard with quickened ears an uproar,Heard the village in commotion,Heard a noise along the sea-shore,Heard the foot-steps on the … Continue reading



    At the Long Sault: May, 1660 (Archibald Lampman Poems)

          Under the day-long sun there is life and mirth      In the working earth,   And the wonderful moon shines bright      Through the soft spring night,    The innocent flowers in the limitless woods are springing      Far and away      With the sound and the perfume of May,    And ever up from the south the happy birds are winging,     The waters glitter and leap and play     While the grey hawk soars.   But far in an open glade of the forest set     Where the rapid plunges and roars,   Is a ruined fort with a name that men forget,—    A shelterless pen     With its broken palisade,     Behind it, musket in hand,     Beyond message or aid     In this savage heart of the wild,     Mere youngsters, grown in a moment to men,     Grim and alert and arrayed,     The comrades of Daulac stand.     Ever before them, night and day,     The rush and skulk and cry     Of foes, not men but devils, panting for prey;  Behind them the sleepless dream  Of the little frail-walled town, far away by the plunging stream,    Of maiden and matron and child,   With ruin and murder impending, and none but they   To beat back the gathering horror   Deal death while they may,     And then die.   Day and night they have watched while the little plain   Grew dark with the rush of the foe, but their host   Broke ever and melted away, with no boast   But to number their slain;   And now as the days renew   Hunger and thirst and care   Were they never so stout, so true,   Press at their hearts; but none   Falters or shrinks or utters a coward word,   Though each setting sun   Brings from the pitiless wild new hands to the Iroquois horde,   And only to them despair.   Silent, white-faced, again and again   Charged and hemmed round by furious hands,   Each for a moment faces them all and stands   In his little desperate ring; like a tired bull moose   Whom scores of sleepless wolves, a ravening pack,   Have chased all night, all day   Through the snow-laden woods, like famine let loose;   And he turns at last in his track   Against a wall of rock and stands at bay;   Round him with terrible sinews and teeth of steel   They charge and recharge; but with many a furious plunge and wheel,   Hither and thither over the trampled snow,   He tosses them bleeding and torn;   Till, driven, and ever to and fro   Harried, wounded, and weary grown,   His mighty strength gives way   And all together they fasten upon him and drag him down.   So Daulac turned him anew  With a ringing cry to his men  In the little raging forest glen,  And his terrible sword in the twilight whistled and slew.  And all his comrades stood  With their backs to the pales, and fought  Till their strength was done;  The thews that were only mortal flagged and broke  Each struck his last wild stroke,  And they fell one by one,  And the world that had seemed so good  Passed like a dream and was naught.   And then the great night came  With the triumph-songs of the foe and the flame  Of the camp-fires.  Out of the dark the soft wind woke,  The song of the rapid rose alway  And came to the spot where the comrades lay,  Beyond help or care,  With none but the red men round them  To gnash their teeth and stare.   All night by the foot of the mountain    The little town lieth at rest,  The sentries are peacefully pacing;    And neither from East nor from West   Is there rumour of death or of danger;    None dreameth tonight in his bed  That ruin was near and the heroes    That met it and stemmed it are dead.   But afar in the ring of the forest,    Where the air is so tender with May  And the waters are wild in the moonlight,    They lie in their silence of clay.   The numberless stars out of heaven    Look down with a pitiful glance;  And the lilies asleep in the forest    Are closed like the lilies of France. (Archibald Lampman)



    The Coming Of Te Rauparaha. (Arthur Henry Adams Poems)

    BLUE, the wreaths of smoke, like drooping bannersFrom the flaming battlements of sunsetHung suspended; and within his whareHipe, last of Ngatiraukawa’s chieftains,Lay a-dying! Ringed about his death-bed,Like a palisade of carven figures,Stood the silent people of the village –Warriors and … Continue reading



    Hastings (Francis Turner Palgrave Poems)

    October 14: 1066 ‘Gyrth, is it dawn in the sky that I see? or is all the sky blood?Heavy and sore was the fight in the North: yet we fought for the good.O but–Brother ‘gainst brother!–’twas hard!–Now I come with … Continue reading



    Blenheim (Francis Turner Palgrave Poems)

    August 13: 1704       Oft hast thou acted thy part,      My country, worthily thee!      Lifted up often thy load      Atlantean, enormous, with glee:–  For on thee the burden is laid to uphold  … Continue reading





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