"Tonto and the Stock Killers" by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by Jon Small - Dell - Four Color 312, January 1951.

“The Gates of Nineveh” by Robert E. Howard (in English)

These are the gates of Nineveh: here

Sargon came when his wars were won

Gazed at the turrets looming clear

Boldly etched in the morning sun

Down from his chariot Sargon came

Tossed his helmet upon the sand

Dropped his sword with its blade like flame

Stroked his beard with his empty hand

"Towers are flaunting their banners red

The people greet me with song and mirth

But a weird is on me," Sargon said

"And I see the end of the tribes of earth"

"Cities crumble, and chariots rust

I see through a fog that is strange and gray

All kingly things fade back to the dust

Even the gates of Nineveh"

“Ave Imperatrix” by Oscar Wilde (in English)

Set in this stormy Northern sea,

Queen of these restless fields of tide,

England! what shall men say of thee,

Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,

Lies in the hollow of thy hand,

And through its heart of crystal pass,

Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,

The long white-crested waves of fight,

And all the deadly fires which are

The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,

The treacherous Russian knows so well,

With gaping blackened jaws are seen

Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England's wars

Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,

To battle with the storm that mars

The star of England's chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows

Across the Pathan's reedy fen,

And the high steeps of Indian snows

Shake to the tread of armèd men.

And many an Afghan chief, who lies

Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,

Clutches his sword in fierce surmise

When on the mountain-side he sees

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes

To tell how he hath heard afar

The measured roll of English drums

Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet

Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,

England with bare and bloody feet

Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height,

Grey pillar of the Indian sky,

Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight

Our wingèd dogs of Victory?

The almond groves of Samarcand,

Bokhara, where red lilies blow,

And Oxus, by whose yellow sand

The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

And on from thence to Ispahan,

The gilded garden of the sun,

Whence the long dusty caravan

Brings cedar and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool

Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet,

Whose marble tanks are ever full

With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar

A little maid Circassian

Is led, a present from the Czar

Unto some old and bearded khan,--

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,

And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;

But the sad dove, that sits alone

In England--she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean

To greet her love with love-lit eyes:

Down in some treacherous black ravine,

Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see

The lingering wistful children wait

To climb upon their father's knee;

And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord

Will kiss the relics of the slain--

Some tarnished epaulette--some sword--

Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields

Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,

Where we might deck their broken shields

With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls,

And many in the Afghan land,

And many where the Ganges falls

Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie,

And others in the seas which are

The portals to the East, or by

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves! O restless sleep!

O silence of the sunless day!

O still ravine! O stormy deep!

Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

And thou whose wounds are never healed,

Whose weary race is never won,

O Cromwell's England! must thou yield

For every inch of ground a son?

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,

Change thy glad song to song of pain;

Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,

And will not yield them back again.

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore

Possess the flower of English land--

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,

Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

What profit now that we have bound

The whole round world with nets of gold,

If hidden in our heart is found

The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride,

Pine-forest-like, on every main?

Ruin and wreck are at our side,

Grim warders of the House of pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?

Where is our English chivalry?

Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,

And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away,

What word of love can dead lips send!

O wasted dust! O senseless clay!

Is this the end! is this the end!

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead

To vex their solemn slumber so;

Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,

Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,

Her watchmen shall descry from far

The young Republic like a sun

Rise from these crimson seas of war.

“Le Balcon” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Mere des souvenirs, mattresses des mattresses

Mother of Memories! O mistress-queen !

Oh ! all my joy and all my duty thou !

The beauty of caresses that have been,

The evenings and the hearth remember now,

Mother of Memories! O mistress-queen !

The evenings burning with the glowing fire,

And on the balcony, the rose-stained nights!

How sweet, how kind you were, my soul's desire.

We said things wonderful as chrysolites,

When evening burned beside the glowing fire.

How fair the Sun is in the evening !

How strong the soul, how high the heaven's high tower !

O first and last of every worshipped thing,

Your odorous heart's-blood filled me like a flower.

How fair the sun is in the evening !

The night grew deep between us like a pall,

And in the dark I guessed your shining eyes,

And drank your breath, O sweet, O honey-gall!

Your little feet slept on me sister-wise.

The night grew deep between us like a pall;

I can call back the days desirable,

And live all bliss again between your knees,

For where else can I find that magic spell

Save in your heart and in your Mysteries ?

I can call back the days desirable.

These vows, these scents, these kisses infinite,

Will they like young suns climbing up the skies

Rise up from some unfathomable pit,

Washed in the sea from all impurities ?

O vows, O scents, O kisses infinite !

"Súplica a Jesus, Vítima dos Pecados" by Unknown Writer (in Portuguese)

       

         Jesus, que vossos ombros chagados me ensinem a não protestar contra a responsabilidade que me destes; a ferida de vosso Coração seja aceita pelo meu como o melhor conforto nas horas de desilusão; vossa amizade de onisciente para com Judas, sobrenatura-lize meus afetos; o olhar para Pedro, a grande lição que eu aproveite para perdoar àqueles que não guardaram minha confiança; o amor à vossa Mãe me liberte de todos os apegos; vosso último olhar para o Céu prenda, na esperança de vos ver, todos os meus olhares; vossa última palavra seja minha realidade suprema.

          Ó meu Jesus, que vosso último suspiro, entrada dolorosa nos domínios da morte, guarde minha alma para a vida eterna. Amém.

"Poema Triste do Adeus ao Amor" by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Reconheço o passado
Passado por minhas mãos,
Por minha vida passando
a saudade, uma sombra
de tristeza passada.

Silêncio triste
de alma turvada;
anseio frustrado
de um amor passado

Vai, amor, nos véus brancos
de nossas lembranças,
rendas alvas e tristes,
lenços de despedida,
adeuses de sedas frias.

Vai, meu amor, que sigo só.
Vou por trilhas de areia seca.
Em cima há calor e azul
mas, dentro, só frio e tristeza.

Adeus.

The Spirit Section by Will Eisner (in English)

(1944-01-02) Chicago Sun.