WE WERE MEANT TO BE - by Justice

WE  WERE  MEANT  TO  BE by Justice Somewhere in time We fell in love Our feelings were so strong Stars sparkled up above Somewhere in time Nothing else mattered We were together Until our hopes and our dreams were shattered Somewhere in time Great memories are there Our love was once great Nothing could compare Somewhere in time Our love stands still A love that we lost Somehow, against our will Somewhere in time We'll meet again Somewhere in time Our love will never end

THE GRAY CHAMPION - by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

There was once a time when New England groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. The administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny, a governor and council holding office from the king and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and the titles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother-country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Protector or popish monarch. Till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects of Great Britain.

At length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of New England. It was but a doubtful whisper; it might be false or the attempt might fail, and in either case the man that stirred against King James would lose his head. Still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people smiled mysteriously in the streets and threw bold glances at their oppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures.

One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the governor's guard and made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when the march commenced. The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets less as the martial music of the soldiers than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multitude by various avenues assembled in King street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterward, of another encounter between the troops of Britain and a people struggling against her tyranny.

Though more than sixty years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. There was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause which would have marked a band of the original Puritans when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house was reared to the God for whom they had become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip's war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old with pious fierceness while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if there were sanctity in their very garments. These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them.

Meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment was almost the Universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained.

"Satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some, "because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison. We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King street."

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession a crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied at that period that New England might have a John Rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the Primer.

"The pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bartholomew," cried others. "We are to be massacred, man and male child."

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class believed the governor's object somewhat less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. There were grounds for conjecturing that Sir Edmund Andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief.

"Stand firm for the old charter governor !" shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea "the good old Governor Bradstreet !"

While this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the well known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with characteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constituted authorities.

"My children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New England and expect patiently what the Lord will do in this matter."

The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of the drum had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations from house to house and the regular tramp of martial footsteps it burst into the street. A double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress of a machine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those around him were his favorite councillors and the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blasted wretch," as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government and was followed with a sensible curse-through life and to his grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind with a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. The captain of a frigate in the harbor and two or three civil officers under the Crown were also there. But the figure which most attracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feeling was the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution, the union of Church and State, and all those abominations which had driven the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear.

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New England, and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the people on one side the religious multitude with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other the group of despotic rulers with the high churchman in the midst and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience could be secured.

"O Lord of hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a champion for thy people !"

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry to introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. The intervening space was empty a paved solitude between lofty edifices which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly there was seen the figure of an ancient man who seemed to have emerged from among the people and was walking by himself along the centre of the street to confront the armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hat in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous gait of age.

When at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, then turned again and resumed his way.

"Who is this gray patriarch ?" asked the young men of their sires.

"Who is this venerable brother ?" asked the old men among themselves.

But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those of fourscore years and upward, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority whom they must have known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop and all the old councillors, giving laws and making prayers and leading them against the savage. The elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth as their own were now. And the young ! How could he have passed so utterly from their memories that hoary sire, the relic of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads in childhood?

"Whence did he come? What is his purpose ? Who can this old man be ?" whispered the wondering crowd.

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced on one side and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle and held it before him like a leader's truncheon.

"Stand!" cried he.

The eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike peal of that voice fit either to rule a host in the battle field or be raised to God in prayer were irresistible. At the old man's word and outstretched arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause whom the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New England.

The governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, but, glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the Crown, had no alternative but obedience.

"What does this old fellow here?" cried Edward Randolph, fiercely. - "On, Sir Edmund ! Bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen to stand aside or be trampled on."

"Nay, nay ! Let us show respect to the good grandsire," said Bullivant, laughing. "See you not he is some old round-headed dignitary who hath lain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change of times ? Doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll's name."

"Are you mad, old man ?" demanded Sir Edmund Andros, in loud and harsh tones. "How dare you stay the march of King James's governor ?"

"I have stayed the march of a king himself ere now," replied the gray figure, with stern composure. "I am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and, beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints. And what speak ye of James ? There is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. Back, thou that wast a governor, back! With this night thy power is ended. To-morrow, the prison ! Back, lest I foretell the scaffold !"

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to converse except with the dead of many years ago. But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms and ready to convert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to quench, and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurely in an open space where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What were his thoughts he uttered no word which might discover, but, whether the oppressor were overawed by the Gray Champion's look or perceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another sunset the governor and all that rode so proudly with him were prisoners, and long ere it was known that James had abdicated King William was proclaimed throughout New England.

But where was the Gray Champion ? Some reported that when the troops had gone from King street and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others soberly affirmed that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till where he stood there was an empty space. But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The men of that generation watched for his reappearance in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed nor where his gravestone was.

And who was the Gray Champion ? Perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence too mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. I have heard that whenever the descendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires the old man appears again. When eighty years had passed, he walked once more in King street. Five years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he stood on the green beside the meeting-house at Lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a slab of slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long may it be ere he comes again! His hour is one of darkness and adversity and peril. But should domestic tyranny oppress us or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the Gray Champion come! for he is the type of New England's hereditary spirit, and his shadowy march on the eve of danger must ever be the pledge that New England's sons will vindicate their ancestry.

COME BACK TO ME - by Shirley

 

COME  BACK  TO  ME by  Shirley I suddenly feel so sad and aloneYou've carved your name in my heartWe've just said hello and goodbye againI can feel the teardrops startYou're gone - not forever - but gone just the sameAll those long lonely miles awayCan't wait 'til you come back to meForever and ever to stay

WELCOME FALL - by Enia

WELCOME  FALL by  Enia Fall has just begunAs summer endsThe color of the leaves gleaming in the sunJumping in leaves with friendsAs the tumble downForming a quilt on the groundHearing the crinkle as you jump inTwisting and turning in the airFeeling of the brisk air blow in your faceThe warm and delightful smell of grandma's pumpkin pieThis is fall.

 

UNEXPRESSED - by Priyanka Tungana - India

UNEXPRESSED by Priyanka Tungana - India It was one of those rare windy evenings in the cluttered cityscapeDriving at a sixty and I wish I could just escapeA series of showrooms passing by, brightened up the streetsAnd the bustling of the footpaths never seemed to cease There is just so much of noise all aroundTraffic, radio and all that jazzWhere is the music that my heart used to sing ?A weird sense of joy those notes used to bring In the heart of the city I’m consumed by my own thoughtsExtricating myself from the besotted society's knotsI zoom out a bit and see a glimpse of what’s soon gonna beI’ll be a changed person, stranger than the reality And this life would also NOT be the same againHow I would miss you and the good times that just wentOcean of golden moments – each one alluring meMelting my heart and setting my soul free I think of your smile and the voices of our laughterThinking of togetherness and those promises ever afterMemories are vanishing in the air like a sparkling smokeThis helplessness of not meeting you ever... I’m unable to revoke Being far doesn’t mean my love and cravings are fewI think of calling and letting you know how much I miss youBut the brief conversation won’t be able to express of what I really feelSometimes a million words fall short of what we really need Easier is to tell you of what I hear and seeUnspoken remains the true feeling I carry along with meOnly the superficial fake emotions - we're able to confessBut deep down the genuine ones …remain unexpressed!

THE WALL - by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

THE  WALL by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse     Now we two are heart to heart,    O most dear of all,    Who were held so long apart    By the sundering wall.     But so suddenly it fell.    At the final touch,    We are dazed and cannot tell    If we hope too much.     We would wait to know the sum    Of our joy and pain    But what if shadowy hands should come    And build the wall again ?

CHARGE THE HILL - by Kristen Feighery

CHARGE  THE  HILL by   Kristen Feighery At the base of the mountain I raise my eyesTo the climb that looms ahead.And though I tremble at the road beforeIt is the path that I must tread. My heart beats wildly and my legs feel weakbut my comfort comes in knowingThere’s a power greater than all of meSo my faith just keeps on growing. Though the world may try to tell meFaith is simple and quite naive,I’ve felt His presence in the blackest of timesAnd I shall continue to believe. There may be days to come where I feel aloneDuring the pain and hardest trials.But there’s an unseen world holding me upAnd protecting me all the while. I know prayers and love will come to HimFrom those who share my suffering.Whose hearts and souls are tied with mineIn this journey laid out for me. So I take the first step and begin the climband I know love will gently lead.Each hand firmly held by family and friendsWe charge the hill to victory.

TO YESTERDAY - by Ruby Archer

 

TO  YESTERDAY by Ruby Archer     O Yesterday, you saw him. In your warm    Sweet light we wandered idly, happily.    Unto your deep of blue his eyes were lent,    And through your moments lingered yet his voice.    Bide near me, Yesterday. You know of him;    And I may turn to you - now he is gone -     Remind you of a glance, a word, a touch,    A thousand glints of soul revealed to soul    And thus defer the thought of poor Today.

COMING HOME - by Ellen P. Allerton

 

COMING  HOME by  Ellen P. Allerton     Home to my mother's door. Push back the lock,     She will not open it - no use to knock.     A weight is on my breast; oh ! never yet     Daughter at mother's door such welcome met!     No kiss upon my lips; no word, no sound,     No loving arms reach out to clasp me round,     I cross the threshold to a solemn room,     Peopled with shadows, silent as the tomb.     The heavy air is chill - no fire, no light;     Only pale sunshine, streaming thin and white     Through the bare panes upon the naked floor.     I shrink and shiver - do not shut the door !     Tread lightly on the creaking boards, speak low;     Start not the hollow echoes; well I know     They sleep in every corner. Do not call,     Lest they should answer loudly, one and all.     Her voice is still. 'Twas here I heard it last -      Here by the door. The tears fell thick and fast     From both our eyes; today the drops run o'er     From only mine; and she - she weeps no more.     This was her bed-room; it was here, you say,     She laid in silence all that summer day,     With roses (how she loved them!) at her head,     Wreathed on the wall and strewn upon her bed.     Now she lies yonder, and a sombre pall     The dead leaves weave above her as they fall;     The rains that beat, the autumn Winds that blow,     Are making ready heavy shrouds of snow.     Whatever covers her, she still sleeps well;     But oh! these silent rooms! I can not tell     Why their cold emptiness should move me so;     I can not bear it longer - let us go.

IT IS EASY - by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 

IT  IS  EASY by   Ella Wheeler Wilcox It is easy to be pleasant When life flows by like a song, But the man worth while is the one who will smile, When everything goes dead wrong. For the test of the heart is trouble, And it always comes with years, And the smile that is worth the praises of earth Is the smile that shines through the tears.

TODAY BE DETERMINED - by Catherine Pulsifer

 

TODAY  BE  DETERMINED by  Catherine Pulsifer Today be determined to be the best you can beToday be determined to help others that you seeToday be determined to persevere in all you doToday be determined to only speak what’s trueToday be determined not to let things get you blueToday be determined to learn one thing newToday be determined to have a positive viewand, today be determined to encourage others too!

TIRED - by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 

TIRED by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox     I am tired tonight, and something,    The wind maybe, or the rain,    Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,    Has brought back the past, and its pain.    And I feel, as I sit here thinking,    That the hand of a dead old June    Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,    And is drawing them up in tune.     I am tired tonight, and I miss you,    And long for you, love, through tears;    And it seems but today that I saw you go -     You, who have been gone for years.    And I seem to be newly lonely -     I, who am so much alone;    And the strings of my heart are well in tune,    But they have not the same old tone.     I am tired; and that old sorrow    Sweeps down the bed of my soul,    As a turbulent river might suddenly break    Away from a dam's control.    It beareth a wreck on its bosom,    A wreck with a snow-white sail,    And the hand on my heart-strings thrums away,    But they only respond with a wail.

EVERY DAY - by Jon Zimmerman

 

EVERY  DAY by   Jon Zimmerman I’ve been stuck in a melancholy mood, All I’ve done these past weeks is brood, And now there’s no more hope for tomorrow, All that’s left is this moment of sorrow. Isolated, by choice, for the past few days, Now isolated by force in so many ways, You were my favorite, and my best friend, It’s too bad that it all had to end. So long. Goodbye. I’ll see you around. Meanwhile I struggle to pick my feet off the ground, My lonely days became even more pained, As lonely as a leaf getting beaten by rain. I love you so much, but I couldn’t stay, We’ve tried time and again, in every way, I tried for so long to make it okay, And you already know that I miss you every day.

INCOMPLETE - by Jazz

INCOMPLETE by  Jazz Being away from youI realize what you mean to meBeing away from youI realize your value in my life In every corner I see you, miss youI miss you in the incompletion of my lifeI miss you in everything around meI miss you because I love you Being away from youI realize I am incomplete without youBecause I can only be complete with you Without you in my lifeI am empty insideI am so incomplete

BRIGHT COLORS OF THE IRISH CITY - KINSALE

 

Kinsale (Irish meaning "head of the brine") is a historic port and fishing town in County Cork, Ireland, which also has significant military history. Located approximately 25 km (16 mi) south of Cork City on the southeast coast near the Old Head of Kinsale, it is located at the mouth of the River Bandon. Its population was 5,281 at the 2016 census. Its population increases during the summer months, when the tourist season is at its peak and the boating fraternity and other tourist visitors arrive in numbers. Kinsale is in the Cork South-West (Dáil Éireann) constituency, which has three seats.

Kinsale is a holiday destination for both Irish and overseas tourists. Leisure activities include yachting, sea angling, and golf. The town also has several art galleries, and there is a large yachting marina close to the town centre.

The town is known for its restaurants, including the Michelin-starred Bastion restaurant, and holds a number of annual gourmet food festivals. - Wikipedia

Gourmet Festival  HENRY MORTON : In this place the British defeated the combined forces of the Spaniards and O'Neill in 1601. The city became an important British naval base (1700-1900), and French prisoners were kept in the city tower built in the 16th century during the Napoleonic wars. The main thing to be proud of - City Museum: this is where the reasons for the sinking of the passenger ship Lusitania in 1915 were investigated. The museum also contains royal charters and maps. At the entrance to the harbor, you can see the well-preserved Fort Charles, which served the city from 1677 to 1922. 

Fort Charles

Fort Charles