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Poems On / About HOUSE  5/5/2015 8:22:22 PM
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  117.     

The Death Of Parson Caldwell's Wife

THE outrage of innocence in instances too numerous to be recorded, of the wanton barbarity of the soldiers of the King of England, as they patrolled the defenceless villages of America, was evinced nowhere more remarkably than in the burnings and massacres every that, marked the footsteps of the British troops as they from time to time ravaged the State of New Jersey. In their late excursion they had trod their deleterious path through a part of the country called the Connecticut Farms. It is needless to particularize many instances of their wanton rage and unprovoked devastation in and near Elizabethtown. The places dedicated to public worship did not escape their fury; these were destroyed more from licentious folly than any religious frenzy or bigotry, to which their nation had at times been liable. Yet through the barbarous transactions of this summer nothing excited more general resentment and compassion than the murder of the amiable and virtuous wife of a Presbyterian clergyman, attended with too many circumstances of grief on the one side and barbarism on the other to pass over in silence. This lady was sitting in her own house with her little domestic circle around her and her infant in her arms, unapprehensive of danger, shrouded by the consciousness of her own innocence and virtue, when a British barbarian pointed his musket into the window of her room, and instantly shot the her through the lungs. A hole was dug, the body thrown in, and the house of this excellent lady set on fire and consumed with all the property it contained. Mr. Caldwell, her affectionate husband, was absent; nothing had ever been alleged against his character, even by his enemies, but his zeal for the rights, and his attachment to his native land. For this he had been persecuted, and for this he was robbed of all that he held dear in life, by bloody hands of men in whose benevolence and politeness he had had much confidence until the fated day when this mistaken opinion led him to leave his beloved family, fearless of danger and certain of their security, from their innocence, virtue, and unoffending amiability. Mr. Caldwell afterward published the proofs of this cruel affair, attested on oath before magistrates by sundry persons who were in the house with Mrs. Caldwell and saw her fall back and expire immediately after the report of the gun. 'This was,' as observed by Mr. Caldwell, 'a violation of tender feeling; without provocation, deliberately committed in open day; nor was it ever frowned on by the commander.' The catastrophe of this unhappy family was completed within two years by the murder of Mr. Caldwell himself by some ruffian hands. His conscious integrity of heart had never suffered him to apprehend any personal danger, and the melancholy that pervaded all on the tragical death of his lady, who was distinguished for the excellence and respectability of her character, wrought up the resentment of that part of the country to so high a pitch that the most timid were aroused to deeds of desperate heroism. They were ready to swear, like Hannibal against the Romans, and to bind their sons to the oath of everlasting enmity to the name of Britain.
 
Mercy Warren

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Read more: innocence poems, murder poems, family poems, house poems, america poems, husband poems, grief poems, silence poems, summer poems, fire poems, death poems, soldier poems, son poems
   
 

   
   
 

  118.     

In The City Of Houses

In the city of houses.
By manoj rath.

Searching for a home
In the city of houses.

Detached, I just roam
In the city of houses.

Street by street
Sweating away beats of self
Bit by bit
Amidst crowd of foam
In the city of houses
Digging a strange dome
In the city of houses

Searching for a home
In the city of houses.

Root by root
Snapping out of the crust
Foot by foot
Amidst shroud of chrome
In the city of houses
Decoding a kin syndrome
In the city of houses


Searching for a home
In the city of houses.
 
manoj kumar rath

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  119.     

Open And Close Ii

The house,
Open and close the door when you enter in;

The house of peace,
The house of love;

Following after the laws and,
Doing what is right after entering in.
 
Edward Kofi Louis

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  120.     

Z213: Exit (Extract 5)

'Z213: Exit' is the first book of the 'Poena Damni' trilogy by Dimitris Lyacos followed by 'Nyct v 'and 'The First Death'.


5


A few hours more, station, deserted, a dirt road for inside the town, mud, mud, blankets outside, mouldering houses of tin, the shattered pylon further behind, not even a car, rubbish, two children setting fire to a heap, two or three other fires on the horizon, houses, the acid smell stronger, pieces and pieces of asphalt, houses of cement blocks, few people, half-open doors, half-light, the mattress as if it were soaked, that milk, the cramp in the stomach and dizziness, when I awoke, I hurried to make it before it got dark, a bit by chance and from what I remembered, asked questions, the other side back to the bridge, the murmur of water, the trees blackening but I could still see, it was in front of me almost as soon as I entered. What are you doing here, sit for a while beside you, if you could also back then, if someone bent down, heard you while still you could be heard, your eyes that were gleaming the eyes growing dim, the pain growing dim, with how many more did they bring you, the bell, silence as they lowered you down, stifled song and a pause, the murmur of water. I am cold, I leave among other names, photos that look at you yet do not see, the sun now again at its end. On the road back, on the plain, a breath, tepid, as a last breath, and a gleam, the river falling behind, the town mute as before, with some wine on the end of a table, the Bible being erased, between its pages the words of a stranger, between him I write wherever I find a no-man’s land.

Translated from Greek by Shorsha Sullivan
 
Dimitris Lyacos

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