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Arsenal At Springfield, The - Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Latest Urdu Poetry

Ankhon Se Meri Isliye Lali Nahi Jati, ,
Yadon Se Koi Raat Jo Khali Nahi Jati, ,
Tu Mangay To Ye Ja

متاع بے بہا ہے سوزودرد و آرزو مندی
مقام بندگی دے کر نہ ل

Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad,
And love me if you like.
I shall not hear the door shut
Nor t

Aaye hain ‘meer’ kaafir ho kar khuda ke ghar mein,
peshaani par hai qashqa zunnaar hai kamar me

us ka mayaar abhi mujh sey juda hai
lekin
woh bhi bikhrey ga to ho jaye ga mere jaisa

Kisi ko de ke dil koi nawaa-sanj-e-fughaaN kyuN ho?? ??
Na ho jab dil hi sine mein to phir muNh ma

Itnay Bhi Nadaan Nahi Hain Hum

Hum ko Parhna Ataa Hai




Konsa Lehja Dil ki Dunya

Kons

Mohabbat Mein Dil Ka Tutna Tum Kabhi Nahi Jaan Paoge,
Agar Hoti Logon Mein Wafa Toh Aaj Hum udas Na

Dil me har raaz daba k rakhte hain,

Honto pay muskan saja k rakhtey hain,



Ye duniya sirf k

KHushi ke waqt bhi tujh ko malal kaisa hai
uruj-e-husn mein naqs-e-kamal kaisa hai

jo ek duje

Use kehna…..
Ye barish ki bondhen …..
Ye taiz hawa ka jhonka…..
Ye khoshgawar mosam……

Bass ek bar kisi ne gale lagaaya tha,
Phir us ke baad na main tha na mera saya tha,
Gali me log bh

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not bet

December ke Kehar ko Deikh ker Dil chahta hai..

Ya ilaahi..! Aisi koi Dhund uski Yaad per bhi ho

Mujhy bekhudi ki hai arzoo
Mujhe qurbaton ka kumar dey

Mery ang ang mei youn uter
K mujhi mein

Now the gods were sitting with Jove in council upon the golden floor
while Hebe went round pouring

Sir Jukhane Se Namazen Ada Nahi Hoteen
Dil Jukhana Parta Hai Ibadat K Liye

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear again

شوق، ہر رنگ رقیبِ سروساماں نکلا
قیس تصویر کے پردے میں ب

Sadma Tou Hai Mujhe Bhi Ke Tujh Se Judaa Hun Mein
Laikin Ye Sochta Hun Ke Ab Tera Kia Hun Mein ?
B

Urdu Poetry

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