To Lucasta, , 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 Honour more.
*This endearing short poem was written by Richard Lovelance, a faithful servant of Charles I of England, who fought for the royalist side in the English Civil War (1640-1649).
The Crusades*, by William Wordsworth
THE turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms
Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine,
The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;
And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;
The scimitar, that yields not to the charms
Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain;
Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain
Their tents, and check the current of their arms.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever
Known to the moral world, Imagination,
Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station
All Christendom:--they sweep along (was never
So huge a host!)--to tear from the Unbeliever
The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.
*excerpted from the Eccesiastical Sonnets