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Posts Tagged ‘prophet’

(For the inauguration of the statue of
Governor Andrew Bingham, October 7, 1875)
 

Behold the shape our eyes have known!
It lives once more in changeless stone;
So looked in mortal face and form
Our guide through peril’s deadly storm. 

But hushed the beating heart we knew,
That heart so tender, brave, and true,
Even as the rooted mountain rock,
Pure as the quarry’s whitest block! 

Not his beneath the blood-red star
To win the soldier’s envied scar;
Unarmed he battled for the right,
In Duty’s never-ending fight. 

Unconquered will, unslumbering eye,
Faith such as bids the martyr die,
The prophet’s glance, the master’s hand
To mould the work his foresight planned, 

These were his gifts; what Heaven had lent;
For justice, mercy, truth, he spent,
First to avenge the traitorous blow,
And first to lift the vanquished foe. 

Lo, thus he stood; in danger’s strait
The pilot of the Pilgrim State!
Too large his fame for her alone, –
A nation claims him as her own!

 

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(January 17,1942 – June 3, 2016)


He floated like a butterfly;
He stung them like a bee;
Self-proclaimed the greatest – and
He was!  Muhammad Ali.

He was the brashest Cassius,
Yet measured to his mouth.
He fought the best available,
And they all tumbled south.

He prophesied the very round
That he’d be conquering.
His oracle was poetry;
He – prophet, poet, king.

He took the crown from Liston,
And later, Smokin’ Joe.
And people all revered him
Wherever he would go.

He would not fight in battle;
They made his boxing cease.
But in the end, he wore the crown
Ambassador of peace.

And thus, today, the talk’s of him
For he has passed away.
A great among the mortals, he
Was also made of Clay.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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In calm and cool and silence, once again
I find my old accustomed place among
My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue
Shall utter words; where never hymn is sung,
Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung,
Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!
There, syllabled by silence, let me hear
The still small voice which reached the prophet’s ear;
Read in my heart a still diviner law
Than Israel’s leader on his tables saw!
There, let me strive with each besetting sin,
Recall my wandering fancies, and restrain
The sore disquiet of a restless brain;
And, as the path of duty is made plain,
May grace be given that I may walk therein,
Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain,
With backward glances and reluctant tread,
Making a merit of his coward dread,
But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown,
Walking as one to pleasant service led;
Doing God’s will as if it were my own,
Yet trusting not in mine, but in his strength alone!

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