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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 04, 2007, 12:39
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Great stuff! Note the large white blotch in the photo on page 144. There's also a little ditty on pages 329 and 330 (the stories old voke do tell) about Wayland's Smithy.
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Vybik Jon 7718 posts |
Oct 04, 2007, 15:26
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I should be penning lines that recall The ancients from whom we’ve been sundered But the purpose of writing this is all To see this thread pass six hundred
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 04, 2007, 15:30
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Thanks VJ (and everyone who's contributed) 'tis done :-)
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Oct 09, 2007, 05:37
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O Thou, to whom in the olden time was raised Yon ample Mound, not fashion'd to display An artful structure, but with better skill Piled massive, to endure through many an age, How simple, how majestic is thy tomb! When temples and when palaces shall fall, And mighty cities moulder into dust, When to their deep foundations Time shall shake The strong-based pyramids, shall thine remain Amid the general ruin unsubdued, Uninjured as the everlasting hills, And mock the feeble power of storms and Time. http://64.233.183.104/search?q=cache:GKJc2Xpm6_IJ:dev.hil.unb.ca/Texts/EPD/UNB/view-works.cgi%3Fc%3Dcrowewil.1336%26pos%3D1+%22william+CROWE%22+%22silbury%22&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&ie=UTF-8 Page 125
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moss 2897 posts |
Oct 09, 2007, 06:53
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I do so love 18th and 19th C vicars; one working day a week, a light ramble over the hills and then some 'noble' poetry.. luckily Crowe seems to have spent so much time at the theatre, and penning poems to his lady loves that he quite forgot to go excavating as well - a very unvicarish vicar... ;) The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now I saw the hoary pile cresting the top Of that north-western hill; and in this Now A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 09, 2007, 09:36
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Thanks Nigel. Seems there are two Rev William Crowe - this one of (1745-1829) and another of (1691–1743). Wonder if they were related.
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Oct 16, 2007, 17:54
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To map the magic of the Rollright Ring To feel the lines of force pulse through the air To lay its megalithic secrets bare In the stillness of a summer evening To walk in wonder through the Avebury Stones And track earth’s whispering patterns there Then dowse the rings about the Devil’s Chair And know the nature of their undertones To stand in awe within the Stonehenge zone And check the powers that charge the winter’s air To probe its dazzling patterns, then dare To sound the secrets of the Slaughter Stone To view the world from Silbury’s soaring crest And sense the power throbbing in its core In tune with Gaia’s geodetic law These earthly enigmas I treasure best. These monuments were raised by men who knew The patterned secrets in the planet’s crust Who harnessed Gala’s power with sacred trust In circle, barrow, hill and avenue. Their sacred circles now stand vandalised The sarcens grey and shattered lie around Razed by religious zealots to the ground Who saw Satan in the circles they despised. Yet Silbury Hill still thrusts towards the sun Like the breast of a giant Amazon Immune to all, this cryptic paragon Preceded Mycenae, Crete and Babylon And like the pyramids win also be As enduring as Everest, or the sea
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 16, 2007, 18:32
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That's a stunner Nigel. Is the Denis Wheatley the Denis Wheatley of [bThe Devil Rides Out[/b] fame?
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nigelswift 8112 posts |
Oct 16, 2007, 18:48
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No its not. It IS a stunner isn't it? It must be (genuinely) wonderful to be a dowser and feel you are experiencing that whole other dimension at ancient sites.
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Littlestone 5386 posts |
Oct 24, 2007, 08:35
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Henge, barrow and midsummer hill Are stations in the sacred landscape. Here the timeless Goddess enters The times of her tribes. It was lifetimes back And what it meant we have almost forgotten, Almost forgotten. We killed a child With great honour and buried her body Curled like a snail at the heart of the henge Where earth spirits might rise through her grave, Follow the curve of the bent bones And spiral out among villagers dancing The sunwheel dance that is danced in spring. A captive ghost, in my meditation, She takes my hand, but I cannot lead her Beyond the ring where the magic fixed her. She will be four years old forever, And crowned with flowers. But all the rest of us Have to be laid in tribal earth To be remade by the winter Goddess Before we come back to the world again. She is the sow that eats her farrow, Old bones cracking within the barrow, But to those whom she fails to frighten A giver of gifts. No corpses lie On midsummer hill, but of all the stations This is the saddest. The sun on high Burns, burns as midsummer’s Queen Hands over her whitening world to death- The fields by severance and the woods By slow decay. With her hair combed out In its red gold sheaves she is perfect strength And perfect beauty about to fade As from this moment summer does- And the child will leave its mother and The long procession wind down the hill. Tony Grist
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