Author: Scott Mannion

” Britons, proceed, the subject Deep command, Awe with your navies every hostile land.   In vain their threats, their armies all in vain: They rule the balanc’d world, who rule the main.“… Below is the final scene of the opera, the dramatic scene bookmarks the singing of the Ode Rule Britannia so reveals some great context. English King, Alfred the Great has just won a great battle, and returns to the island village of Athelneu: his hiding place, and the makeshift fortress from which he staged his resistance war against the great heathen Danish army… …VILLAGE OF ATHELNEY  CORIN, EMMA, kneeling to ALFRED.  ALFRED.  Rise, my honest shepherd.   I came to thee a peasant, not a prince:   And, what exalts a king o’er other men,   Stript of the toys of royalty? Yet more,   Thy rural entertainment was sincere,   Plain, hospitable, kind: such as, I hope,   Will ever mark the manners of this nation. You friendly lodg’d me, when by all deserted: And shall have ample recompense. CORIN.   One boon,Is all I crave.   ALFRED.   Good shepherd, speak thy wish.  CORIN.   Permission, in your wars, to serve your Grace: For tho here lost in solitary shades,   A simple swain, I bear an English heart:   A heart that burns with rage to see those Danes, Those foreign  ruffians, those inhuman pirates, Oft our inferiors prov’d, thus lord it o’er us.  ALFRED.  Brave countryman, come on. ‘Tis such as thou, Who from   affection serve, and free-born zeal, To guard whate’er is dear   and sacred to them, That are a king’s best honor and defence.  EMMA sings the following song: 1. If those, who live in shepherd’s bower,  Press not the rich and stately bed:   The new-mown hay and breathing flower  A softer couch beneath them spread.   2. If those, who sit at shepherd’s board,  Soothe not their taste by wanton art;  hey take what Nature’s gifts afford,  And take it with a chearful heart.  3. If those, who drain the shepherd’s bowl,  No high and sparkling wines can boast;  With wholesome cups they chear the soul,  And crown them with the village toast.  4. If those, who join in shepherd’s sport,  Gay-dancing on the daizy’d ground,  Have not the splendor of a court;  Yet Love adorns the merry round.  END BACK TO SCENE: ALFRED.  My lov’d ELTRUDA! thou shalt here remain, With gentle EMMA, and this reverend Hermit. Ye silver streams, that murmuring wind around This dusky spot, to you I trust my all!   O close around her, woods! for her, ye vales, Throw forth your flowers, your softest lap diffuse!  And Thou! whose secret and expansive hand Moves all the springs of this vast universe: Whose government astonishes; who here,   In a few hours, beyond our utmost hope,   Beyond our thought, yet doubting, hast clear’d up The storm   of fate: preserve what thy kind will, Thy bountiful   appointment, makes so dear   To human hearts! preserve my queen and children! Preserve   the hopes of England! while I go   To finish thy great work, and save my country.   ELTRUDA.  Go, pay the debt of honor to the public.   If ever woman, ALFRED, lov’d her husband More fondly than herself, I claim that virtue, That heart-felt happiness. Yet, by our loves   I swear, that in a glorious death with thee   I rather would be wrapt, than live long years To charm thee from the rugged paths of honor: So much I think thee born for beauteous deeds, And the bright course of glory.   ALFRED. Matchless woman!   Love, at thy voice, is kindled to ambition. Be this my dearest triumph, to approve me A husband worthy of the best ELTRUDA!  HERMIT.   Behold, my Lord, our venerable Bard,  Aged and blind, him whom the Muses favour.   Yet ere you go, in our lov’d country’s praise,   That noblest theme, hear what his rapture breathes:   CUE. AN ODE:  RULE BRITANNIA  1. When Britain first, at heaven’s command,  Arose from out the azure main;   This was the charter of the land,   And guardian Angels sung this strain:  “Rule Britannia, rule the waves;   “Britons never will be slaves.”  2. The nations, not so blest as thee,   Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:  While thou shalt flourish great and free,  The dread and envy of them all.   “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:  “Britons never will be slaves.   3. Still more majestic shalt thou rise,   More dreadful, from each foreign stroke:  As the loud blast that tears the skies,  Serves but to root thy native oak.   “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:  “Britons never will be slaves.  4. Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:  All their attempts to bend thee down,  Will but arrouse thy generous flame;  But work their woe, and thy renown.  “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:  “Britons never will be slaves.  5. To thee belongs the rural reign;   Thy cities shall with commerce shine:  All thine shall be the subject main,  And every shore it circles thine.   “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:  “Britons never will be slaves.   6.  The Muses, still with freedom found,  Shall to thy happy coast repair:   Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown’d,  And manly hearts to guard the fair.  “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:  “Britons never will be slaves.  END BACK TO SCENE: HERMIT.  ALFRED, go forth! lead on the radiant years, To thee reveal’d in vision.—Lo! they rise! Lo! patriots, heroes, sages, croud to birth: And bards to sing them in immortal verse!  I see thy commerce, Britain, grasp the world: All nations serve thee; every foreign flood, Subjected, pays its tribute to the Thames. Thither the golden South obedient pours  His sunny treasures: thither the soft East  Her spices, delicacies, gentle gifts:  And thither his rough trade the stormy North. See, where beyond the vast Atlantic surge, By boldest keels untouch’d, a dreadful space!  Shores, yet unfound, arise! in youthful prime, With towering forests, mighty rivers crown’d! These stoop to Britain‘s thunder. This new world, Shook to its centre, trembles at her name:  And there, her sons, with aim exalted, sow The seeds of rising empire, arts, and arms.  Britons, proceed, the subject Deep command, Awe with your navies every hostile land.   In vain their threats, their armies all in vain: They rule the balanc’d world, who rule the main. The END. ... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

“According to the ancient and laudable custom of the schools, I, as one of your wandering scholars returned, have been instructed to speak to you. The only penalty youth must pay for its enviable privileges is that of listening to people known, alas, to be older and alleged to be wiser. On such occasions youth feigns an air of polite interest and reverence, while age tries to look virtuous. Which pretences sit uneasily on both of them. On such occasions very little truth is spoken. I will try not to depart from the convention. I will not tell you how the sins of youth are due very largely to its virtues; how its arrogance is very often the result of its innate shyness; how its brutality is the outcome of its natural virginity of spirit. These things are true, but your preceptors might object to such texts without the proper notes and emendations. But I can try to speak to you more or less truthfully on certain matters to which you may give the attention and belief proper to your years. When, to use a detestable phrase, you go out into “the battle of life,” you will be confronted by an organized conspiracy which will try to make you believe that the world is governed by the idea of wealth for wealth’s sake, and that all means which lead to the acquisition of that wealth are, if not laudable, at least expedient. Those of you who have fitly imbibed the spirit of our university—and it was not a materialistic university which trained a scholar to take both the Craven and the Ireland in England—will violently resent that thought, but you will live and eat and move and have your being in a world dominated by that thought. Some of you will probably succumb to the poison of it. Now, I do not ask you not to be carried away by the first rush of the great game of life. That is expecting you to be more than human. But I do ask you, after the first heat of the game, that you draw breath and watch your fellows for a while. Sooner or later, you will see some man to whom the idea of wealth as mere wealth does not appeal, whom the methods of amassing that wealth do not interest, and who will not accept money if you offer it to him at a certain price. At first you will be inclined to laugh at this man, and to think that he is not “smart” in his ideas. I suggest that you watch him closely, for he will presently demonstrate to you that money dominates everybody except the man who does not want money. You may meet that man on your farm, in your village, or in your legislature. But be sure that, whenever or wherever you meet him, as soon as it comes to a direct issue between you, his little finger will be thicker than your loins. You will go in fear of him; he will not go in fear of you. You will do what he wants; he will not do what you want. You will find that you have no weapon in your armoury with which you can attack him, no argument with which you can appeal to him. Whatever you gain, he will gain more. I would like you to study that man. I would like you better to be that man, because from the lower point of view it doesn’t pay to be obsessed by the desire of wealth for wealth’s sake. If more wealth is necessary to you, for purposes not your own, use your left hand to acquire it, but keep your right for your proper work in life. If you employ both arms in that game, you will be in danger of stooping, in danger also of losing your soul. But in spite of everything you may succeed, you may be successful, you may acquire enormous wealth. In which case I warn you that you stand in grave danger of being spoken and written of and pointed out as “a smart man.” And that is one of the most terrible calamities that can overtake a sane, civilised man today. They say youth is the season of hope, ambition, and uplift—that the last word youth needs is an exhortation to be cheerful. Some of you here know—and I remember—that youth can be a season of great depression, despondencies, doubts, and waverings, the worse because they seem to be peculiar to ourselves and incommunicable to our fellows. There is a certain darkness into which the soul of the young man sometimes descends—a horror of desolation, abandonment, and realized worthlessness, which is one of the most real of the hells in which we are compelled to walk. I know of what I speak. This is due to a variety of causes, the chief of which is the egotism of the human animal itself. But I can tell you for your comfort that the chief cure for it is to interest yourself, to lose yourself in some issue not personal to yourself—in another man’s trouble or, preferably, another man’s joy. But, if the dark hour does not vanish, as sometimes it doesn’t, if the black cloud will not lift, as sometimes it will not, let me tell you again for your comfort that there are many liars in the world, but there are no liars like our own sensations. The despair and the horror mean nothing, because there is for you nothing irremediable, nothing ineffaceable, nothing irrecoverable in anything you may have said or thought or done. If, for any reason, you cannot believe or have not been taught to believe in the infinite mercy of Heaven, which has made us all, and will take care we do not go far astray, at least believe that you are not yet sufficiently important to be taken too seriously by the Powers above us or beneath us. In other words, take anything and everything seriously except yourselves. I regret that I noticed certain signs of irreverent laughter when I alluded to the word “smartness.” I have no message to deliver, but, if I had a message to deliver to a University which I love, to the young men who have the future of their country to mould, I would say with all the force at my command, Do not be “smart.” If I were not a doctor of this University with a deep interest in its discipline, and if I did not hold the strongest views on that reprehensible form of amusement known as “rushing,” I would say that, whenever and wherever you find one of your dear little playmates showing signs of smartness in his work, his talk, or his play, take him tenderly by the hand—by both hands, by the back of the neck if necessary—and lovingly, playfully, but firmly, lead him to a knowledge of higher and more interesting things.”... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

1. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and after the same manner in every country. Be not puffed up with a breath (of it) 2. Of a portion set aside a portion or ever the days come when thou shalt see there is no work in them 3. For he that hath not must serve him that hath; even to the peril of the soul 4. Take the wage for thy work in silver and (it may be) gold; but accept not honours nor any great gifts 5. Is ye ox yoked till men have need of him; or the camel belled while yet she is free? And wouldst thou be eved with these? 6. Pledge no writing till it is written; and seek not payment on (any) account the matter shall be remembered against thee.” 7. There is a generation which selleth dung in the street and saith: “To the pure all things are pure.” 8. But count (thou) on the one hand how may be so minded; and after write according to thy knowledge. 9. Because not all evil beareth fruit in a day; and it may be some shall curse thy grave for the iniquity of thy works in their youth 10. The fool brayeth in his heart there is no God; therefore his imaginings are terribly returned on him; and that without interpreter 11. Get skill, and when thou has it, forget; lest the bird on her nest mock thee, and He that is Highest look down 12. Get knowledge; it shall not burst thee; and amass under thy hand a peculiar treasure of words: 13. As a King heapeth him jewels to bestow or cast aside; or being alone in his palace, fortifieth himself beholding (them). 14. So near as thou canst, open not thy whole mind to any man. 15. The bounds of his craft are appointed to each from of old; they shall not be known to the cup-mates or the companions “16. For three things my heart is disquieted; and for four that I cannot bear: 17. For a woman who esteemeth ”“herself a man; and a man that delighteth in her company; 18. For people whose young men are cut off by the sword; and for the soul that regardeth not these things. 19. In three things, yea and in four, is the metal of the workman made plain: 20. In excessive labour; in continual sloth; in long waiting; and in the day of triumph. 21. There is one glory of the sun and another of the moon and a third of the stars: yet are all these appointed for the glory of the earth which alone hath no light. 22. Hold not back (any) part of a price. 23. Despise no man even in thy heart; for the custom of it shall make thy works of none effect 24. Use not overmuch to frequent the schools of the scribes; for idols are there and (all) the paths return upon themselves. 25. Envy no man’s work nor deliver judgement upon it in the gate, for the end is bitterness. 26. Consider now those blind worms of the deep which fence themselves about as it were with stone against their fellows; 27. And reaching the intolerable light of the sun straightway[…]” “ sun straightway perish leaving but their tombs; 28. By those whose mere multitude the sea is presently stayed; the tide itself divideth at that place. 29. Small waves after storm laying there seeds, nuts and the bodies of fish, (at last) an island ariseth crowned with palms; thither the sea-birds repair. 30. Till man coming taketh all to his use and hath no memory of aught below (his feet) 31. Out of the dust which had life come all things and shalt thou be other than they? 32. Nevertheless, my son, dare thou greatly to believe.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own heath-stone? But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman’s ware or his word? Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age – why not? I have neither hope nor thurst; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die – who knows? We are ashes and dust. Peace singing under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine, When only the ledger, lives and when only not all men lie; Peace in her vineyard – yes! – but a company forges the wine. And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head, Till he filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Song of the Sons “One from the ends of the earth—gifts at an open door— Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more! From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed, Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed! Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude? Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?” “Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in— We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe; Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in— We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe; Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. Gifts have we only to-day—Love without promise or fee— Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea! Mother England Answers “Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban; Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man. Flesh of the flesh that I bred, bone of the bone that I bare; Stark as your sons shall be—stern as your fathers were. Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether, But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together. “My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by. Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether, But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together. My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by; Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry. My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by; Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry. Look, I have made ye a place and opened wide the doors, That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors— Wards of the Outer March, Lords of the Lower Seas, Ay, talk to your grey mother that bore you on her knees!—” “That ye may talk together, brother to brother’s face— Thus for the good of your peoples—thus for the Pride of the Race. Also, we will make promise. So long as The Blood endures, I shall know that your good is mine: ye shall feel that my strength is yours: In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall.” “Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands, And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands. This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom, This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom. The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will,” “Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still.” “Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you, After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few. Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways, Baulking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise. Stand to your work and be wise—certain of sword and pen,”... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet. The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.And the eyes of the King’s Servants turned terribly every way,And the gold of the King’s Servants rose higher every day.They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,Till there was no bed in a monk’s house, nor food that man could find.The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak.The King’s Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak. And the face of the King’s Servants grew greater than the King:He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey’s fruits,And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale. A war that we understood not came over the world and wokeAmericans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people’s reign:And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and scorned us never again.Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing notThe strange fierce face of the Frenchmen who knew for what they fought,And the man who seemed to be more than a man we strained against and broke;And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke. Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain,He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:We only know the last sad squires rode slowly towards the sea,And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we. They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs. We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,Our wrath come after Russia’s wrath and our wrath be the worst.It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our restGod’s scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away,(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,An’ dreamin’ arl the time O’ Plymouth Hoe.Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,Wi’ sailor lads a-dancing’ heel-an’-toe,An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’,He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas,(Capten, art tha’ sleepin’ there below?)Roving’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,A’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.“Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low;If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,An’ drum them up the Channel as we drumm’d them long ago.” Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,An’ dreamin arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago!... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here

 Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature’s highest dower: Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. —’Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: —Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: —He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:— ‘Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,— Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not— Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape or danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name— Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.... Associate Producer Membership Required You must be a Associate Producer member to access this content.Join NowAlready a member? Log in here