Posted: September 16th, 2022
Order Compare And Contrast Essay
1）Pope, “The Call”
Jessie Pope, “The Call” (1915)
The following poem is perhaps the best-known example of Jessie Pope’s jingoistic war poems, exhorting young men to enlist and save England, or be labeled cowards. Her reputation was such that Wilfred Owen originally entitled “Dulce et Decorum Est” as “To Jessie Pope.”
Who’s for the trench— Are you, my laddie? Who’ll follow French— Will you, my laddie? Who’s fretting to begin, Who’s going out to win? And who wants to save his skin— Do you, my laddie?
Who’s for the khaki suit— Are you, my laddie? Who longs to charge and shoot— Do you, my laddie? Who’s keen on getting fit, Who means to show his grit, And who’d rather wait a bit— Would you, my laddie?
Who’ll earn the Empire’s thanks— Will you, my laddie? Who’ll swell the victor’s ranks— Will you, my laddie? When that procession comes, Banners and rolling drums— Who’ll stand and bite his thumbs— Will you, my laddie?
2）Owen, “Dulce et Decorum Est”
BY WILFRED OWEN
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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