Henry Purcell Baroque Born: 10 September 1659, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 21 November 1695, London, UK
Purcell was a composer of a uniquely English form of Baroque music which incorporated Italian and French elements. He is one of the greatest English composers and the most famous before the 20th century’s Elgar, Williams, and Britten
The souvenirs of memory recall While beckoning my thoughts to think of you Back to the good days when we had it all
As I walk this beach how my world has changed But being here I feel our love again Not even death’s hand can leave us estranged On the beach with a landscape blurred by rain
Like a painting with its colours rearranged In this place where into love I can fall And the missing of you carries no pain For here, sweet love is more than just a name Yet saying your name speaks of love so true
Souvenirs of our love making its claim On this beach where out love remains the same
Dance the Night Away Album: Van Halen II Date: 1979 Genre: Pop Artist: Van Halen
Van Halen was a rock band formed in California in 1972. They are credited with restoring hard rock to the forefront of the rock scene and were known for their energetic live performances and the virtuosity of their lead guitarist Eddie Van Halen. The band consisted of Eddie Van Halen, his brother Alex Van Halen (drummer), vocalist David Lee Roth, and bassist/vocalist Michael Antony. Toth left the band in 1985 and was replaced by Sammy Hagar, formerly of Montrose. In 2001 Eddie was diagnosed with cancer and died of the disease in 2020
Remote and ineffectual Don That dared attack my Chesterton, With that poor weapon, half-impelled, Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held, Unworthy for a tilt with men– Your quavering and corroded pen; Don poor at Bed and worse at Table, Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable; Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes, Don nervous, Don of crudities; Don clerical, Don ordinary, Don self-absorbed and solitary; Don here-and-there, Don epileptic; Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic; Don middle-class, Don sycophantic, Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic; Don hypocritical, Don bad, Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad; Don (since a man must make and end), Don that shall never be my friend.
Don different from those regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze, Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply bellying gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable! Dons of Might! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep–and learning of a sort. Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand. Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain– The horizon of my memories– Like large and comfortable trees.
Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame. Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don–Don past all bearing. Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil, Don that serves the devil. Don ugly–that makes fifty lines. There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines. I never cut; I far prefer to end it–but Believe me I shall soon return. My fires are banked, but still they burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton
Hilaire Belloc Born: 27 July 1870, La-Celle-Saint-Cloud, France Nationality: French-English Died: 16 July 1953, Surrey, England
Belloc was a writer, historian, poet, orator, satirist, sailor, writer of letters, soldier, and political activist of the early 20th century. His work was inspired by his Catholic faith. Belloc became a naturalized subject of Britain whilst maintaining his French citizenship in 1902. He was president of the Oxford Union and from 1906 to 1910 he served as MP for Salford South
At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o’erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For if above all these my sins abound, ‘Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there: here on this lowly ground Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood