89 Total Quotes

Hilaire Belloc Quotes Page 3

Hilaire Belloc
The Vulture eats between his meals, And that's the reason why He very, very, rarely feels As well as you and I. His eye is dull, his head is bald, His neck is growing thinner. Oh! what a lesson for us all To only eat at dinner!
Hilaire Belloc
#Children #Funny

Hilaire Belloc
Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine, There's always laughter and good red wine. At least I've always found it so. Benedicamus Domino!
Hilaire Belloc
#Catholicism #Short #Sun

Hilaire Belloc
How did the party go in Portman Square? I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there. And how did Lady Gaster's party go? Juliet was next me and I do not know.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
To exalt, enthrone, establish and defend, To welcome home mankind's mysterious friend Wine, true begetter of all arts that be; Wine, privilege of the completely free; Wine the recorder; wine the sagely strong; Wine, bright avenger of sly-dealing wrong, Awake, Ausonian Muse, and sing the vineyard song! Sing how the Charioteer from Asia came, And on his front the little dancing flame Which marked the God-head. Sing the Panther-team, The gilded Thrysus twirling, and the gleam Of cymbals through the darkness. Sing the drums. He comes; the young renewer of Hellas comes! The Seas await him. Those Aegean Seas Roll from the dawning, ponderous, ill at ease, In lifts of lead, whose cresting hardly breaks To ghostly foam, when suddenly there awakes A mountain glory inland. All the skies Are luminous; and amid the sea bird cries The mariner hears a morning breeze arise. Then goes the Pageant forward. The sea-way Silvers the feet of that august array Trailing above the waters, through the airs; And as they pass a wind before them bears The quickening word, the influence magical. The Islands have received it, marble-tall; The long shores of the mainland. Something fills The warm Euboean combes, the sacred hills Of Aulis and of Argos. Still they move Touching the City walls, the Temple grove, Till, far upon the horizon-glint, a gleam Of light, of trembling light, revealed they seem Turned to a cloud, but to a cloud that shines, And everywhere as they pass, the Vines! The Vines! The Vines, the conquering Vines! And the Vine breaths Her savour through the upland, empty heaths Of treeless wastes; the Vines have come to where The dark Pelasgian steep defends the lair Of the wolf's hiding; to the empty fields By Aufidus, the dry campaign that yields No harvest for the husbandman, but now Shall bear a nobler foison than the plough; To where, festooned along the tall elm trees, Tendrils are mirrored in Tyrrhenian seas; To where the South awaits them; even to where Stark, African informed of burning air, Upturned to Heaven the broad Hipponian plain Extends luxurious and invites the main. Guelma's a mother: barren Thaspsa breeds; And northward in the valleys, next the meads That sleep by misty river banks, the Vines Have struck to spread below the solemn pines. The Vines are on the roof-trees. All the Shrines And Homes of men are consecrate with Vines. And now the task of that triumphant day Has reached to victory. In the reddening ray With all his train, from hard Iberian lands Fulfilled, apparent, that Creator stands Halted on Atlas. Far Beneath him, far, The strength of Ocean darkening and the star Beyond all shores. There is a silence made. It glorifies: and the gigantic shade Of Hercules adores him from the West. Dead Lucre: burnt Ambition: Wine is best. But what are these that from the outer murk Of dense mephitic vapours creeping lurk To breathe foul airs from that corrupted well Which oozes slime along the floor of Hell? These are the stricken palsied brood of sin In whose vile veins, poor, poisonous and thin, Decoctions of embittered hatreds crawl: These are the Water-Drinkers, cursed all! On what gin-sodden Hags, what flaccid sires Bred these White Slugs from what exhaust desires? In what close prison's horror were their wiles Watched by what tyrant power with evil smiles; Or in what caverns, blocked from grace and air Received they, then, the mandates of despair? What! Must our race, our tragic race, that roam All exiled from our first, and final, home: That in one moment of temptation lost Our heritage, and now wander, hunger-tost Beyond the Gates (still speaking with our eyes For ever of remembered Paradise), Must we with every gift accepted, still, With every joy, receive attendant ill? Must some lewd evil follow all our good And muttering dog our brief beatitude? A primal doom, inexorable, wise, Permitted, ordered, even these to rise. Even in the shadow of so bright a Lord Must swarm and propagate the filthy horde Debased, accursed I say, abhorrent and abhorred. Accursed and curse-bestowing. For whosoe'er Shall suffer their contagion, everywhere Falls from the estate of man and finds his end To the mere beverage of the beast condemned. For such as these in vain the Rhine has rolled Imperial centuries by hills of gold; For such as these the flashing Rhone shall rage In vain its lightning through the Hermitage Or level-browed divine Touraine receive The tribute of her vintages at eve. For such as these Burgundian heats in vain Swell the rich slope or load the empurpled plain. Bootless for such as these the mighty task Of bottling God the Father in a flask And leading all Creation down distilled To one small ardent sphere immensely filled. With memories empty, with experience null, With vapid eye-balls meaningless and dull They pass unblest through the unfruitful light; And when we open the bronze doors of Night, When we in high carousal, we reclined, Spur up to Heaven the still ascending mind, Pass with the all inspiring, to and fro, The torch of genius and the Muse's glow, They, lifeless, stare at vacancy alone Or plan mean traffic, or repeat their moan. We, when repose demands us, welcomed are In young white arms, like our great Exemplar Who, wearied with creation, takes his rest And sinks to sleep on Ariadne's breast. They through the darkness into darkness press Despised, abandoned and companionless. And when the course of either's sleep has run We leap to life like heralds of the sun; We from the couch in roseate mornings gay Salute as equals the exultant day While they, the unworthy, unrewarded, they The dank despisers of the Vine, arise To watch grey dawns and mourn indifferent skies. Forget them! Form the Dionysian ring And pulse the ground, and Io, Io, sing. Father Lenaean, to whom our strength belongs, Our loves, our wars, our laughter and our songs, Remember our inheritance, who praise Your glory in these last unhappy days When beauty sickens and a muddied robe Of baseness fouls the universal globe. Though all the Gods indignant and their train Abandon ruined man, do thou remain! By thee the vesture of our life was made, The Embattled Gate, the lordly Colonnade, The woven fabric's gracious hues, the sound Of trumpets, and the quivering fountain-round, And, indestructible, the Arch, and, high, The Shaft of Stone that stands against the sky, And, last, the guardian-genius of them, Rhyme, Come from beyond the world to conquer time: All these are thine, Lenaean. By thee do seers the inward light discern; By thee the statue lives, the Gods return; By thee the thunder and the falling foam Of loud Acquoria's torrent call to Rome; Alba rejoices in a thousand springs, Gensano laughs, and Orvieto sings... But, Ah! With Orvieto, with that name Of dark, Eturian, subterranean flame The years dissolve. I am standing in that hour Of majesty Septembral, and the power Which swells the clusters when the nights are still With autumn stars on Orvieto hill. Had these been mine, Ausonian Muse, to know The large contented oxen heaving slow; To count my sheaves at harvest; so to spend Perfected days in peace until the end; With every evening's dust of gold to hear The bells upon the pasture height, the clear Full horn of herdsmen gathering in the kine To ancient byres in hamlets Appenine, And crown abundant age with generous ease: Had these, Ausonian Muse, had these, had these..... But since I would not, since I could not stay, Let me remember even in this my day How, when the ephemeral vision's lure is past All, all, must face their Passion at the last Was there not one that did to Heaven complain How, driving through the midnight and the rain, He struck, the Atlantic seethe and surge before, Wrecked in the North along a lonely shore To make the lights of home and hear his name no more. Was there not one that from a desperate field Rode with no guerdon but a rifted shield; A name disherited; a broken sword; Wounds unrenowned; battle beneath no Lord; Strong blows, but on the void, and toil without reward. When from the waste of such long labour done I too must leave the grape-ennobling sun And like the vineyard worker take my way Down the long shadows of declining day, Bend on the sombre plain my clouded sight And leave the mountain to the advancing night, Come to the term of all that was mine own With nothingness before me, and alone; Then to what hope of answer shall I turn? Comrade-Commander whom I dared not earn, What said You then to trembling friends and few? "A moment, and I drink it with you new: But in my Father's Kingdom." So, my Friend, Let not Your cup desert me in the end. But when the hour of mine adventure's near Just and benignant, let my youth appear Bearing a Chalice, open, golden, wide, With benediction graven on its side. So touch my dying lip: so bridge that deep: So pledge my waking from the gift of sleep, And, sacramental, raise me the Divine: Strong brother in God and last companion, Wine.
Hilaire Belloc
#Heroes And Heroism #Praise

Hilaire Belloc
When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind. The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me. The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away. The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald; They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.
Hilaire Belloc
#Sex

Hilaire Belloc
The world is full of double beds And most delightful maidenheads, Which being so, there's no excuse For sodomy of self-abuse.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
To-night in million-voiced London I Was lonely as the million-pointed sky Until your single voice. Ah! So the sun Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Pelagius lived at Kardanoel And taught a doctrine there How, whether you went to heaven or to hell It was your own affair. It had nothing to do with the Church, my boy, But was your own affair. No, he didn't believe In Adam and Eve He put no faith therein! His doubts began With the Fall of Man And he laughed at Original Sin. With my row-ti-tow Ti-oodly-ow He laughed at original sin. Then came the bishop of old Auxerre Germanus was his name He tore great handfuls out of his hair And he called Pelagius shame. And with his stout Episcopal staff So thoroughly whacked and banged The heretics all, both short and tall -- They rather had been hanged. Oh he whacked them hard, and he banged them long Upon each and all occasions Till they bellowed in chorus, loud and strong Their orthodox persuasions. With my row-ti-tow Ti-oodly-ow Their orthodox persuasions. Now the faith is old and the Devil bold Exceedingly bold indeed. And the masses of doubt that are floating about Would smother a mortal creed. But we that sit in a sturdy youth And still can drink strong ale Let us put it away to infallible truth That always shall prevail. And thank the Lord For the temporal sword And howling heretics too. And all good things Our Christendom brings But especially barley brew! With my row-ti-tow Ti-oodly-ow Especially barley brew!
Hilaire Belloc
#Song

Hilaire Belloc
The Scorpion is as black as soot, He dearly loves to bite; He is a most unpleasant brute To find in bed at night.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Of three in One and One in three My narrow mind would doubting be Till Beauty, Grace and Kindness met And all at once were Juliet.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
I shoot the Hippopotamus With bullets made of platinum, Because if I use leaden ones His hide is sure to flatten 'em.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right! It is the business of the wealthy man To give employment to the artisan.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Kings live in Palaces, and Pigs in sties, And youth in Expectation. Youth is wise.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
It was my shame, and now it is my boast, That I have loved you rather more than most.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Who was cursed with the Sin of Pride, and Became a Boot-Black. Godolphin Horne was Nobly Born; He held the Human Race in Scorn, And lived with all his Sisters where His father lived, in Berkeley Square. And oh! The Lad was Deathly Proud! He never shook your Hand or Bowed, But merely smirked and nodded thus: How perfectly ridiculous! Alas! That such Affected Tricks Should flourish in a Child of Six! (For such was Young Godolphin's age). Just then, the Court required a Page, Whereat the Lord High Chamberlain (The Kindest and the Best of Men), He went good-naturedly and took A perfectly enormous Book Called People Qualified to Be Attendant on His Majesty, And murmured, as he scanned the list (To see that no one should be missed), "There's William Coutts has got the Flu, And Billy Higgs would never do, And Guy de Vere is far too young, And ... wasn't D'Alton's father hung? And as for Alexander Byng!-... I think I know the kind of thing, A Churchman, cleanly, nobly born, Come, let us say Godolphin Horne?" But hardly had he said the word When Murmurs of Dissent were heard. The King of Iceland's Eldest Son Said, "Thank you! I am taking none!" The Aged Duchess of Athlone Remarked, in her sub-acid tone, "I doubt if He is what we need!" With which the Bishops all agreed; And even Lady Mary Flood (So kind, and oh! So really good) Said, "No! He wouldn't do at all, He'd make us feel a lot too small." The Chamberlain said, "Well, well, well! No doubt you're right. One cannot tell!" He took his Gold and Diamond Pen And scratched Godolphin out again. So now Godolphin is the Boy Who Blacks the Boots at the Savoy.
Hilaire Belloc
#God

Hilaire Belloc
Torture will give a dozen pence or more To keep a drab from bawling at his door. The public taste is quite a different thing- Torture is positively paid to sing.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin, Come, open the door to us, let us come in. A score of stout fellows who think it no sin If they toast till they're hoarse, and drink till they spin, Hoofed it amain Rain or no rain, To crack your old jokes, and your bottle to drain. Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets As soon as his guts with its humour he wets, The miser his gold, and the student his debts, And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets. For there's never a wine Like this tipple of thine From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine. Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx, But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow, If the Devil's above there's good liquor below. So it abound, Pass it around, Burgundy's Burgundy all the year round.
Hilaire Belloc
#Song

Hilaire Belloc
Is there any reward? I'm beginning to doubt it. I am broken and bored, Is there any reward Reassure me, Good Lord, And inform me about it. Is there any reward? I'm beginning to doubt it.
Hilaire Belloc
#Rewards

Hilaire Belloc
When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: All that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good. When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there: "If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. "Almighty God will surely cry, 'St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands, "'And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?' "St. Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), 'I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name . . . . ?' "St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: 'I know him for the best of men That ever walloped barley brew. "'And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, I hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.' "Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the blessed doubtful things Of Val d'Aran and Perigord." _________ This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died.
Hilaire Belloc
#Death

Hilaire Belloc
Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight, But Roaring Bill (who killed him) thought it right.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Three Graces; and the mother were a Grace, But for profounder meaning in her face.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Inviting the influence of a young lady upon the opening year You wear the morning like your dress And are with mastery crown'd; When as you walk your loveliness Goes shining all around: Upon your secret, smiling way Such new contents were found, The Dancing Loves made holiday On that delightful ground. Then summon April forth, and send Commandment through the flowers; About our woods your grace extend, A queen of careless hours. For O! not Vera veil'd in rain, Nor Dian's sacred Ring, With all her royal nymphs in train Could so lead on the Spring.
Hilaire Belloc
#Song

Hilaire Belloc
The Dromedary is a cheerful bird: I cannot say the same about the Kurd.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
The species Man and Marmozet Are intimately linked; The Marmozet survives as yet, But Men are all extinct.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short

Hilaire Belloc
Lump says that Caliban's of gutter breed, And Caliban says Lump's a fool indeed, And Caliban and Lump and I are all agreed.
Hilaire Belloc
#Short