War - Philosophy VIII

[BLUEHAWK]

"And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

"War, war is still the cry,'War even to the knife!' "
Lord Byron (1788-1824)

"There is such a thing as legitimate warfare: war has its laws; there are things which may fairly be done, and things which may not be done... He has attempted (as I may call it) to poison the wells."
Cardinal Newman (1801-1890)

"Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Humour but an empty bubble.
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think, it worth enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the Gods provide thee."
John Dryden (1631-1700)

"Everlasting peace is a dream, and not even a pleasant one; and war is a necessary part of God's arrangement of the world... Without war, the world would slide dissolutely into materialism."
Helmuth von Moltke (1800-1891)

[Desdichado]

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stain?d snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.


Thomas Campbell - "Hohenlinden" - 1802