By long-standing tradition, at irregular intervals Saturday becomes Poetry Day at Gates of Vienna. The following poem by Edward Muir was first featured here more than ten years ago, but deserves a second look, since it is still apropos today. Perhaps even more so, since so many more of our public servants have sold themselves to the highest bidder in the interim. Whether disbursed by the Lords of Petroleum or agents of the New World order, our political, cultural, and spiritual leaders have queued up for their share of the lucre. They have enfeoffed themselves to Mammon, carrying their own people into bondage with them.
Last night’s review of Udo Ulfkotte’s book highlighted the process by which Germany has been sold to Islam, but a similar pattern may be observed across the entire Western world. Almost everyone in a position of public trust seems to be beholden to Lucifer now, whether he presents himself as a Gulf sheikh or George Soros or a member of the Chinese Politburo. As a result we have “Pride” parades, public orgies of celebration over sex-change operations, “refugee resettlement”, unlabeled halal food in our supermarkets, and legal prohibitions against the defamation of Islam.
Here’s what Edwin Muir had to say about it all those years ago:
by Edwin Muir
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away —
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road?
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true…
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.
How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.
A note on the illustration at the top of this post: The image is a detail from an engraving showing Fort Nassau at Mouri (also spelled Mori, Moree, and Mouree) on the Dutch Gold Coast in Ghana. It was built in the early 17th century, during the heyday of the Dutch commercial empire.
At that time the Dutch were poaching on traditional Portuguese territory, and had to build a fortress to protect their settlement at Mouri from Portuguese attack. By the late 18th century the British Empire ruled the seas, and in 1781 a British expeditionary force under Captain Shirley captured Fort Nassau and garrisoned it.
Dutch Gold Coast traders were active in the transatlantic slave trade, sailing from The Netherlands to West Africa and thence to the Caribbean, their holds packed with human cargo, before their eventual return to Amsterdam.