For the Fallen

For the Fallen

Laurence Binyon

For the Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day–time; They sleep beyond England’s foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well–spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869–1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.
For the Fallen
mater agit grates et honores Anglia reddit, dum gemit occisos trans maris alta suos. hoc genus, hic genius patriae: male passa tyrannos mater, et his eadem causa suprema fuit. funere ab augusto cantatur in aetheris arces nenia; sollemni tympana voce sonant; audimus medio coelestia carmina luctu, et mira in lacrimis gloria luce nitet. ad pugnam egreditur iuvenum cum cantibus agmen; stat robur membris, lucet in ore fides; intrepidique ultro, veniant si milia contra, hostibus adverso comminus ore cadunt. non illos poterit ceu nos vexare senectus, non anni fessis imposuisse notam. illorum memores cernemus condere solem lumen, item prima luce rubere polum. quos nec ridentes cari comitantur amici, nec iamiam retinent mensa, cubile, domus: nec datur his operis nostri pars ulla diurni, sed procul a patriae litore, grata quies. at qua surgit amor nobis, quibus orta profundis spes similis caecae condita fontis aquae, noverit hos penitusque fovens in pectore condet patria, ceu nocti sidera nota, suos. hi, cum nos erimus pulvis, velut astra nitebunt, quae carpent caeli per loca rite vias; sidera uti splendent, ubi nos premit hora tenebris, perpetua haec durat luce corusca cohors.
An homage to Laurence Binyon and to all those who fell in the Great War and in subsequent wars.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Premieres Aéroplanes

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre
Les roses de l’été — couleur, parfum et miel — Peuplent l’air diaphane; Mais la guerre parsème effrayamment le ciel De grands aéroplanes. Ils s’envolent si haut qu’on ne les entend pas Vrombir dans la lumière Et que l’ombre qu’ils allongent de haut en bas S’arrête avant la terre. L’aile courbe et rigide et le châssis tendu, Ils vont, passent et rôdent, Et promènent partout le danger suspendu De leur brusque maraude. Ceux des villes les regardant virer et fuir Ne distinguent pas même Sur leur avant d’acier ou sur leur flanc de cuir Leur marque ou leur emblème. On crie, — et nul ne sait quelle âme habite en eux, Ni vers quel but de guerre Leur vol tout à la fois sinistre et lumineux Dirige son mystère. Ils s’éloignent soudain dans la pleine clarté, Dieu sait par quelle voie, En emportant l’affre et la peur de la cité Pour butin et pour proie.
Premieres Aéroplanes
Honey, colours, aromas of roses of summer: Bright breeze’s refrains. But war sows the sky with the fearsome yammer Of great aeroplanes. They fly up so high and they thrum in the light Yet we hear no sound And their shadow stretching down from a height Never reaches the ground. With chassis outstretched, with curved rigid wing They circle and prowl, And wherever they go they hang threatening With their evil patrol. City people watching them scamper and wheel Cannot even descry On their leather flank or their nose of steel An identity. Though we shout, no–one knows who is riding unseen, Or to what warlike ends The luminous flight of the hellish machine Inscrutably tends. And all at once in broad daylight they’ve fled, God knows by which way, Making off with the city’s terror and dread, Their booty, their prey. Published in Agenda 2014.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Women of Weinsberg

Die Weiber von Weinsberg

Adelbert von Chamisso (1781-1838)

Die Weiber von Weinsberg
Der erste Hohenstaufen, der König Konrad lag Mit Heeresmacht vor Winsperg seit manchem langen Tag. Der Welfe war geschlagen, noch wehrte sich das Nest, Die unverzagten Städter, die hielten es noch fest. Der Hunger kam, der Hunger! das ist ein scharfer Dorn! Nun suchten sie die Gnade, nun trafen sie den Zorn: „Ihr hab mir hier erschlagen. gar manchen Degen wert, Und öffnet ihr die Tore, so trifft euch doch das Schwert.“ Da sind die Weiber kommen: „Und muss es also sein, Gewährt uns freien Abzug, wir sind vom Blute rein. “Da hat sich vor den Armen des Helden Zorn gekühlt, Da hat ein sanft Erbarmen im Herzen er gefühlt. „Die Weiber mögen abziehn und jede habe frei, Was sie vermag zu tragen und ihr das Liebste sei; Lasst ziehn mit ihrer Bürde sie ungehindert fort, Das ist des Königs Meinung, das ist des Königs Wort.“ Und als der frühe Morgen im Osten kam gegraut, Da hat ein seltnes Schauspiel vom Lager man geschaut; Es öffnet leise, leise sich das bedrängte Tor, Es schwankt ein Zug von Weibern mit schwerem Schritt hervor. Tief beugt die Last sie nieder, die auf dem Nacken ruht, Sie tragen ihre Eh’herrn, das ist ihr liebstes Gut. „Halt an die argen Weiber!“, ruft drohend mancher Wicht; - Der Kanzler spricht bedeutsam: „Das war die Meinung nicht." Da hat, wie er’s vernommen, der fromme Herr gelacht: „Und war es nicht die Meinung, sie haben’s gut gemacht; Gesprochen ist gesprochen, das Königswort besteht, Und zwar von keinem Kanzler zerdeutelt und zerdreht.“ So war das Gold der Krone wohl rein und unentweiht. Die Sage schallt herüber aus halbvergessner Zeit. Im Jahr elfhundert vierzig, wie ich’s verzeichnet fand, Galt Königswort noch heilig im deutschen Vaterland.
The Women of Weinsberg
First of the Hohenstaufen, the bold King Conrad lay Encamped in force at Weinsberg for many a weary day. The Guelph he had defeated; this eyrie still gave fight; The burghers kept their courage, and held the fortress tight. Came hunger then, came hunger, that sharp and painful thorn; They came to him for mercy, and found his rage and scorn. ‘Ye’ve slain full many a gallant; expect your just reward; ‘Tis vain your gates to open; your portion is the sword’. Then came to him the women: ‘And if it must be so, Guiltless are we of slaughter; then let us freely go.’ And when he heard their pleading, the hero’s rage was quelled; Instead within his bosom a soft compassion swelled. ‘The women have safe conduct, and each may carry free Whatever she can shoulder that dear to her may be. Let them proceed unhindered, and bear away their load; So let it be, for such is our royal will and word!’ And as the early morning rose in the East so grey, Strange was the scene they witnessed, who in the siege-camp lay: From that beleaguered gateway that slowly opened wide, A swaying line of women came forth with heavy stride. The load their necks supported, it bent them to the ground: They bore away their husbands, the dearest thing they owned. ‘Arrest the caitiff women!’- harsh cries and threats were heard; ‘This never was intended!’ the chancellor averred. He smiled when he beheld it, the just and pious King; ‘Perhaps I never willed it, yet here’s a noble thing! A promise is a promise; the royal word holds good, By chancellors not ever misprised or misconstrued.’ And so the royal crown of gold was pure and undefiled: The year, eleven forty, by our chroniclers compiled. From half-forgotten ages still we hear the story ring: Sacred in German homeland was the promise of a King.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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