For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "The English War" by Dorothy L. Sayers. Poem begins at timestamp 3:55.  “The English War”  by Dorothy L. Sayers Praise God, now, for an English war The grey tide and the sullen coast, The menace of the urgent hour, The single island, like a tower, Ringed with an angry host. This is the war that England knows, When all the world holds but one man King Philip of the galleons, Louis, whose light outshone the sun’s, The conquering Corsican. When Europe, like a prison door, Clangs, and the swift, enfranchised sea runs narrower than a village brook; And men who love us not, yet look To us for liberty; When no allies are left, no help to count upon from alien hands, No waverers remain to woo, No more advice to listen to, And only England stands. This is the war we always knew, When every county keeps her own, When Kent stands sentry in the lane And Fenland guards her dyke and drain, Cornwall, her cliffs of stone; When from the Cinque Ports and the Wight, From Plymouth Sound and Bristol Town, There comes a noise that breaks our sleep, Of the deep calling to the deep Where the ships go up and down. And near and far across the world Hold open wide the water-gates, And all the tall adventurers come Homeward to England, and Drake’s drum Is beaten through the Straits. This is the war that we have known And fought in every hundred years, Our sword, upon the last, steep path, Forged by the hammer of our wrath On the anvil of our fears. Send us, O God, the will and power To do as we have done before; The men that ride the sea and air are the same men their fathers were To fight the English war. And send, O God, an English peace – Some sense, some decency, perhaps Some justice, too, if we are able, With no sly jackals round our table, Cringing for blood-stained scraps; No dangerous dreams of wishful men Whose homes are safe, who never feel The flying death that swoops and stuns, The kisses of the curtseying guns Slavering their street with steel; No dream, Lord God, but vigilance, That we may keep, by might and main, Inviolate seas, inviolate skies – But if another tyrant rise, Then we shall fight again.

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe. Poem begins at timestamp 4:40.  “The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna”  by Charles Wolfe Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,     As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot     O'er the grave where our hero was buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night,     The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light     And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast,     Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest     With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said,     And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,     And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed     And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,     And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,     And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on     In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done     When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun     That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,     From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,     But we left him alone with his glory!

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell. Poem begins at timestamp 3:46.  “Into Battle”  by Julian Grenfell The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase.   The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fulness after dearth.   All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip:   The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end.   The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.   The blackbird sings to him: "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."   In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; — O patient eyes, courageous hearts!   And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.   The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace. Poem begins at timestamp 8:24.  “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars”  by Richard Lovelace Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.   True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.   Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.  

For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is “To Pompeius” Ode 2,7 by Horace, translated by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 12:55.