Another favorite excerpt of mine from 'Horatius at the Bridge' to go with the webm:
With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turned the blow. The blow, yet turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius he leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet so fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smited oak. Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lay spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, ere he wrenched out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?" But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van.
ΣΤΙΣ ΜΑΧΕΣ ΑΓΡΙΑ ΡΙΧΝΟΜΑΣΤΕ - ΛΙΟΝΤΑΡΙΑ! ΟΛΟΙ ΠΕΤΟΥΜΕ ΣΑΝ ΛΕΒΕΝΤΕΣ ΣΤΑΥΡΑΕΤΟΙ! ΚΑΙ ΤΡΑΓΟΥΔΩΝΤΑΣ ΣΑΝ ΤΑ ΑΡΧΑΙΑ ΠΑΛΙΚΑΡΙΑ! ΚΑΙ ΣΤΟΛΙΣΜΕΝΟΙ ΣΑΝ ΝΑ ΠΑΜΕ ΣΕ ΓΙΟΡΤΗ! ΠΑΙΔΙΑ - ΓΥΝΑΙΚΕΣ, ΟΛΑ ΑΦΗΝΟΥΜΕ ΕΔΩ ΠΕΡΑ ΔΕΝ ΤΑ ΘΥΜΟΜΑΣΤΕ ΕΜΕΙΣ ΠΟΤΕ! ΜΙΑ ΣΚΕΨΗ ΜΟΝΟ ΚΥΒΕΡΝΑΕΙ ΝΥΧΤΑ - ΜΕΡΑ ΠΩΣ ΘΑ ΓΥΡΙΣΟΥΜΕ ΚΑΙ ΠΑΛΙ ΝΙΚΗΤΑΙ!
I really like what these Ukies are doing. It's certainly metal, yet it reminds me of Godspeed You! Black Emperor with the monotonity and the snipets from films.
There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky, She killed the pigeons of peace and security, She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men, She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty. She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last. Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running. This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes. This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan; The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things. Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme, Empty darkness under the death-tent wings. She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood, Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.
Contemplation would make a good life, keep it strict, only The eyes of a desert skull drinking the sun, Too intense for flesh, lonely Exultations of white bone; Pure action would make a good life, let it be sharp- Set between the throat and the knife. A man who knows death by heart Is the man for that life. In pleasant peace and security How suddenly the soul in a man begins to die. He shall look up above the stalled oxen Envying the cruel falcon, And dig under the straw for a stone To bruise himself on.
