No Second Troy

Listen to:

No Second Troy (:50)

by William Butler Yeats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

That is not natural in an age like this,

Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

What Riches Have You

Listen to:

What Riches Have You (:59)

  by George Santayana  

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

SONNET 29

                                                            

What riches have you that you deem me poor,

Or what large comfort that you call me sad?

Tell me what makes you so exceeding glad:

Is your earth happy or your heaven sure?

I hope for heaven, since the stars endure

And bring such tidings as our fathers had.

I know no deeper doubt to make me mad,

I need no brighter love to keep me pure.

To me the faiths of old are daily bread;

I bless their hope, I bless their will to save,

 And my deep heart still meaneth what they said.

It makes me happy that the soul is brave,

And, being so much kinsman to the dead,

I walk contented to the peopled grave.

This Living Hand

Listen to:

This Living Hand (:41)

 by John Keats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

                                                 

A-Roving

Listen to:

A-Roving (:43)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

So, we'll go no more a-roving

   So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

   And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

   And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

   By the light of the moon.

God in Every Object

Listen to:

God in Every Object (2:12)

by Walt Whitman 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Song of Myself    

 48

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own

    funeral drest in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the

    learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it

    may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed

    before a million universes.

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,

(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and

    about death.)

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,

Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,

I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd

    by God's name,

And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,

Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

Lucifer in Starlight

Listen to:

Lucifer in Starlight (1:01)

by George Meredith 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  

On a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose.  

  Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend  

  Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd,  

Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose.  

Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.          

  And now upon his western wing he lean'd,  

  Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd,  

Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows.  

Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scars  

  With memory of the old revolt from Awe,  

He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars,  

Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank.  

Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank,  

  The army of unalterable law.

January - Jackson

Listen to:

January (1:07)

by Helen Hunt Jackson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn
The bridges thou dost lay where men desire
In vain to build. O Heart, when Love's sun goes
To northward, and the sounds of singing cease,
Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.
Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows,
The winter is the winter's own release. 

The Blind Men and the Elephant

Listen to:

The Blind Men and the Elephant (2:28)

 by John Godfrey Saxe

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approach'd the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, -"Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 'tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
"What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain," quoth he,
"'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Then, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL. 

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen! 

Invictus

Listen to:

Invictus (:55)

by William Ernest Henley 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

Winter

Listen to:

Winter (2:17)

by Samuel Johnson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

No more the morn with tepid rays

Unfolds the flower of various hue; 

Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distills the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night,

Usurping darkness shares the day;

Her mists restrain the force of light,

And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half revealed,

With sighs we view the hoary hill,

The leafless wood, the naked field,

The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.

No music warbles through the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;

No more with devious steps I rove

Through verdant paths, now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars;

Congeal'd impetuous showers descend;

Haste, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat my little sphere;

Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high;

Light up a constellation here.

Let music sound the voice of joy!

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;

Let love his wanton wiles employ,

And o'er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale shall please no more;

Nor music charm, though Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine the spring restore.

Catch the, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies;

Life's a short Summer - man a flower,

He dies - alas! how soon he dies!

No Platonic Love

Listen to:

No Platonic Love (1:36)

by William Cartwright 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,
    And hearts exchang’d for hearts;
That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,
    And mix their subt’lest parts;
That two unbodied essences may kiss,
And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought
    To practise this thin love;
I climb’d from sex to soul, from soul to thought;
    But thinking there to move,
Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then
From soul I lighted at the sex again.

As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast,
    Who yet in closets eat;
So lovers who profess they spirits taste,
    Feed yet on grosser meat;
I know they boast they souls to souls convey,
Howe’r they meet, the body is the way.

Come I will undeceive thee, they that tread
    Those vain aerial ways,
Are like young heirs and alchemists misled
    To waste their wealth and days,
For searching thus to be for ever rich,
They only find a med’cine for the itch.

To Anyone

Listen to:

To Anyone (:26)

by Witter Bynner

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Whether the time be slow or fast,
  Enemies, hand in hand,
Must come together at the last
  And understand.
 
No matter how the die is cast      
  Nor who may seem to win,
You know that you must love at last—
  Why not begin?

The Fields

Listen to:

The Fields (:27)

by Witter Bynner

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Though wisdom underfoot
  Dies in the bloody fields,
Slowly the endless root
  Gathers again and yields.
 
In fields where hate has hurled      
  Its force, where folly rots,
Wisdom shall be unfurled
  Small as forget-me-nots.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4 (3:13)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A few short hours, and he will rise

   To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

   But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

   Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

   My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page:

   Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

   Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

   Our ship is swift and strong;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

   More merrily along.'

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

   I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

   Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone, 

   A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

   But thee--and One above.

'My father blessed me fervently,

   Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

   Till I come back again.' -

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

   Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

   Mine own would not be dry.

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

   Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,

   Or shiver at the gale?' -

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

   Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

   Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

   Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,

   What answer shall she make?' -

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

   Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

   Will laugh to flee away.'

For who would trust the seeming sighs

   Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes

   We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

   Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

   No thing that claims a tear.  

And now I'm in the world alone,

   Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

   When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain

   Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

   He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

   Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

   So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

   And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

   My Native Land--Good Night!

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3 (1:59)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

XI.

   His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

   The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

   Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,

   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

   And long had fed his youthful appetite;

   His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,

   And all that mote to luxury invite,     may, might

   Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.    

XII.

   The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew

   As glad to waft him from his native home;

   And fast the white rocks faded from his view,

   And soon were lost in circumambient foam;

   And then, it may be, of his wish to roam

   Repented he, but in his bosom slept

   The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

   One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

   But when the sun was sinking in the sea,

   He seized his harp, which he at times could string,

   And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

   When deemed he no strange ear was listening:

   And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

   And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,

   While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,

   And fleeting shores receded from his sight,

Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

   Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

   And shrieks the wild sea-mew.      

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

   We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

   My Native Land--Good Night!  

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2 (2:46)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

VI.

   And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

   And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

   'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

   But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:

   Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

   And from his native land resolved to go,

   And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

   With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

   The Childe departed from his father's hall;

   It was a vast and venerable pile;

   So old, it seemed only not to fall,

   Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.

   Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

   Where superstition once had made her den,

   Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

   And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

   Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,

   Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

   As if the memory of some deadly feud

   Or disappointed passion lurked below:

   But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

   For his was not that open, artless soul

   That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;

   Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

   And none did love him:  though to hall and bower

   He gathered revellers from far and near,

   He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;

   The heartless parasites of present cheer.

   Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear -  

   But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

   And where these are light Eros finds a feere;    

   Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

X.

   Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,

   Though parting from that mother he did shun;

   A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

   Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

   If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

   Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;

   Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

   A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1 (2:48)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I.

   Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
   Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
   Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
   Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
   Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
   Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
   Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
   Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine.

II.

   Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
   Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
   But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
   And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
   Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
   Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
   Few earthly things found favour in his sight
   Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

   Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name
   And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
   Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
   And had been glorious in another day:
   But one sad losel soils a name for aye,  
   However mighty in the olden time;
   Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
   Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.


IV.

   Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
   Disporting there like any other fly,
   Nor deemed before his little day was done  
   One blast might chill him into misery.
   But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;    
   He felt the fulness of satiety:
   Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

V.

   For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
   Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
   Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
   And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
   Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
   Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
   Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
   And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

Let Your Soul Stand Cool

Listen to:

Let Your Soul Stand Cool (1:06)

by Walt Whitman

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

   

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own

    funeral drest in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the

    learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it

    may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed

    before a million universes.

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is

Listen to:

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is (2:52)

by Sir Edward Dyer

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

My mind to me a kingdom is;

  Such present joys therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

  That earth affords or grows by kind:

Though much I want that most would have,        

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,

  No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

  No shape to feed a loving eye;        

To none of these I yield as thrall;

For why? my mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,

  And hasty climbers soon do fall;

I see that those which are aloft        

  Mishap doth threaten most of all:

They get with toil, they keep with fear:

Such cares my mind could never bear.

Content I live, this is my stay;

  I seek no more than may suffice;        

I press to bear no haughty sway;

  Look, what I lack my mind supplies.

Lo, thus I triumph like a king,

Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;        

  I little have, and seek no more.

They are but poor, though much they have,

  And I am rich with little store;

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;

They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.        

I laugh not at another’s loss,

  I grudge not at another’s gain;

No worldly waves my mind can toss;

  My state at one doth still remain:

I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;        

I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,

  Their wisdom by their rage of will;

Their treasure is their only trust,

  A cloakèd craft their store of skill;        

But all the pleasure that I find

Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,

  My conscience clear my chief defence;

I neither seek by bribes to please,        

  Nor by deceit to breed offence:

Thus do I live; thus will I die;

Would all did so as well as I!

Concord Hymn

Listen to:

Concord Hymn (1:04)

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

   Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood

   And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

   Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

   Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

   We set today a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,

   When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

   To die, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

   The shaft we raise to them and thee.