I do not often think of poetry, of lines learned and prose discussed; those times and conversations happened when still a young man, but passages still stick in my mind, and, ignoring the modern trash, filled with bile and class hatred as one should, I prefer the classic lines of the masters who conjured sweat, blood and honour with words instead of steel.
The poem of which I write is perhaps, by some, overlooked, but in its skein of words lives all that is honourable, and good, and brave. I commend the words of Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay:-
Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the gate:
“To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods,
For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods.
I have lived by these words and ideals, have faced down arrogance in officialdom, as well as bullies, and know that this world would be perhaps a better place if more thought and acted as I.