Age of Jahiliyah

A blog of wide and varied interest, including Islam, Muslims, Poetry, Art and much more.

Archive for the day “May 2, 2007”

Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother by Amelia Blandford Edwards

Give me three grains of corn, Mother, only three grains of corn;

It will keep the little life I have ’til the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, Mother, dying of hunger and cold,

And half the agony of such a death my lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, Mother, a wolf that is fierce for

blood;

All the livelong day, and the night beside, gnawing for lack of food.

I dreamed of bread in my sleep, Mother, and the sight was heaven to see;

I awoke with an eager famishing lip, but you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, Mother, how could I look to you,

For bread to give to your starving boy, when you were starving too?

For I read the famine in your cheek and in your eyes so wild,

And I felt it in your bony hand, as you laid it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, Mother, the Queen has lands and gold;

While you are forced to your empty breast a skeleton babe to hold.

A babe that is dying of want, Mother, as I am dying now,

With a gastly look in its sunken eye, and famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, Mother, what has poor Ireland done,

That the world looks on and sees us starve, perishing one by one?

Do the men of England care not, Mother, the great men and the high,

For the suffering sons of Erin’s Isle, whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, Mother, dying of want and cold,

While only across the Channel, Mother, are many that roll in gold;

There are rich and proud men there, Mother, with wonderous wealth to view,

And the bread they fling to their dogs tonight would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, Mother, come nearer to my side,

And hold me fondly as you held my Father when he died.

Quick! For I cannot see you, Mother, my breath is almost gone.

Mother, dear Mother, ere I die, give me three grains of corn.

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Fare Thee Well by Lord Byron

I
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
‘Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

II
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o’er thee
Which thou ne’er canst know again:

III
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
‘Twas not well to spurn it so.

IV
Though the world for this commend thee‚
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praise must offend thee,
Founded on another’s woe:

V
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

VI
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

VII
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is – that we no more may meet.

VIII
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

IX
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child’s first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say ‘Father!’
Though his care she must forego?

X
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

XI
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may’st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

XII
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where’er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

XIII
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee – by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:

XIV
But ’tis done – all words are idle –
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

XV
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie.
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

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