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Headwind Late 2005

by Headwind-1

/
1.
Salem 1692 Delusions of days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts. These are our theme tonight and vaguely here, Through the dim mist that crowd the atmosphere, We draw the outline of weird figures cast In shadow on the back ground of the past. Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, amid the woods that crown The neighbouring hillside and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms, Who would believe that in the peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats. Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breath The benediction of unbroken rest, Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace? T’was but a village: the Goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The good wife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbours in the sun, The only men of dignity and state Were then the minister and magistrate, Whom ruled their little realm with an iron rod Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead. Something of this our scene tonight will show; And ye who listens to this tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilty alone. This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells , a witch was burned or drowned
2.
This train ain't going nowhere . . . .to die! . . . . . . . .
3.
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
4.
Half a league half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred: 'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd & thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack & Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke, Shatter'd & sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse & hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!
5.
6.
In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud, without, the tempest thundered And the castle-turret shook, In this fight was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book. By his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells, that from the neighboring kloster Rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits; And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free!" And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, "Miserere, Domine!" In that hour of deep contrition He beheld, with clearer vision, Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion, And the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
7.
Lake Of Como 03:15
Cadenabbia (Lake of Como) No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade, Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below. The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands, beckoning up the Stelvio Pass, Varenna with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere? Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger, until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake; Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been.
8.
Songo River 05:25
Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake, Links together lake and lake. Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow. Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude. Never school-boy, in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about. In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene. Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies. Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown. But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise. Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:-- "Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste! "Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9.
Later. . .

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released November 18, 2012

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Headwind-1 UK

Nautical Spacerock!. . .Know Yourself . . Nothing In Excess.
Marine Artwork By Kind Permission Of My Good Friend Barry Mason Seaton, Devon's Foremost Marine Artist.

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