Ne'er

For you, against myself I'll vow debate, for I must ne'er love him whom you do hate.

"A king was ours, AEneas; ne'er was born / a man more just, more valiant in the fight, / more famed for piety and deeds of might."

"Then he, at length his show of fear laid by, / 'Great King, all truly will I own, whate'er / the issue, nor my Argive race deny. / This first; if fortune, spiteful and unfair, / hath made poor Sinon wretched, fortune ne'er / shall make me false or faithless.'"

"To thee, yea, thee, fierce miscreant", he cried, / may Heaven, if Heaven with righteous eyes behold / so foul an outrage and a deed so bold, / ne'er fail a fitting guerdon to ordain, / nor worthy quittance for thy crime withhold, / whose hand hath made me see my darling slain, / and dared with filial blood a father's eyes profane."

"Arms – bring me arms! Troy's dying moments call / the vanquished. Give me to the Greeks. Once more / let me revive the battle; ne'er shall all / die unrevenged this day, nor tamely meet their fall."

"Ne'er / to Grecian women shall I bow the knee, / never in Argos see captivity, / I, who my lineage from the Dardans tell, / allied to Venus."

Heavenly ire / ne'er sent a pest more loathsome; ne'er were seen / worse plagues to issue from the Stygian mire.

"But ne'er the town, by Destiny assigned, / your walls shall gird, till famine's pangs constrain / to gnaw your boards, in quittance for our slain."

Come, stack arms, Men! Pile on the rails; stir up the campfire bright; no matter if the canteen fails, we'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, there burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, to swell the Brigade's rousing song, of “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.” We see him now — the old slouched hat cocked o’er his eye askew, the shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, so calm, so blunt, so true. The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well; says he, “That’s Banks — he’s fond of shell; Lord save his soul! We’ll give him” — well, that’s “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.” Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! Old Blue Light’s going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: Attention! 'Tis his way. Appealing from his native sod in forma pauperis to God: “Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod! Amen!” That’s “Stonewall’s Way.” He’s in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady, the whole brigade! Hill’s at the ford, cut off — we’ll win his way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? “Quick step! We’re with him before the morn!” That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.” The sun’s bright lances rout the mists of morning, and by George! Here’s Longstreet struggling in the lists, hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Yankees, whipped before, “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar; “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!” in “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.” Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn for news of Stonewall’s band! Ah! Widow read with eyes that burn that ring upon thy hand. Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on! Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne’er been born that gets in “Stonewall’s Way.”