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”Naisista kaunis, miehistä rohkea aina hän olkoon!”

Viktor Rydberg minusta
Mitsutomoe Tämä käyttäjä on Beepedian ylläpitäjä. Hänelle ei siis parane vittuilla!


Hieno mies. Hajoavassa maailmassa on vaikeaa tukeutua muuhun kuin Hikipedian spinoffeihin. Vahvistan tässä olevani Vieläkin Uudemman Beepedian käyttäjä Napoleon.


Tietoja minusta:

  • Omistan kaktuksen. Kannattaa siis miettiä kahdesti ennen kuin alkaa isotella minulle.
  • Tykkään päteä. Miettikää, millainen olisin, ellen saisi päteä. Miettikää!
  • Matti Vanhanen käski minun ryhtyä tulevaisuuden huippuosaajaksi.
  • En tykkää kylmästä.
  • Olen juonut Tonavasta Keisarin maljan.
  • Olen universaalinen antimonarkisti.
  • En osaa luistella takaperin.
    • En aio opetella luistelemaan takaperin.

Missä minua kannattaa varoa


Sivisty!


Tuotantoa


Paskiaisia

Osa 1Osa 2Osa 3


Suosittelen


Tiesitkö, että...

  • Muna tulee paskaseks jos panere poikii?
  • Homot on pelottavia?
  • Homoilla ei ole kavereita?

Asiatonta mammuttitautia

Sitten asiaan.


To the Emperors of Russia and Austria Who Eyed the Battle of Austerlitz from the Heights whilst Buonaparte Was Active in the Thickest of Fight
Coward Chiefs! who while the fight
Rages in the plain below
Hide the shame of your affright
On yon distant mountain's brow,
Does one human feeling creep
Through your hearts' remorseless sleep?
On that silence cold and deep
Does the impulse flow
Such as fires the Patriot's breast,
Such as breaks the Hero's rest?
No, cowards! ye are calm and still.
Keen frosts that blight the human bud
Each opening petal blight and kill
And bathe its tenderness in blood.
Ye hear the groans of those who die,
Ye hear the whistling death-shots fly.
And when the yells of Victory
Float o'er the murdered good,
Ye smile secure. –On yonder plain
The game, if lost, begins again.
Austerlitz
Think ye the restless fiend who haunts
The tumult of yon glory field,
Whom neither shame nor danger daunts,
Who does not fear, who cannot yield,
Will not with Equalizing blow
Exalt the high, abase the low,
And in one mighty shock o'erthrow
The slaves that sceptres wield,
Till from the ruin of the storm
Ariseth Freedom's awful form?
Hushed below the battle's jar
Night rests silent on the Heath,
Silent save when vultures soar
Above the wounded warrior's death.
How sleep ye now, unfeeling Kings!
Peace seldom folds her snowy wings
On poisoned memory's conscience-stings,
Which lurk bad hearts beneath,
Nor downy beds procure repose
Where crime and terror mingle throes.
Yet may your terrors rest secure.
Thou Northern chief, why starest thou?
Pale Austria, calm those fears. Be sure
The tyrant needs such slaves as you.
Think ye the world would bear his sway
Were dastards such as you away?
No! they would pluck his plumage gay
Torn from a nation's woe,
And lay him in the oblivious gloom
Where Freedom now prepares your tomb.
Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of Bonaparte
DelarocheNapoleon
I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most unambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer
A frail and bloody pomp which Time has swept
In fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.
Lines Written on Hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon
What! alive and so bold, O Earth?
Art thou not overbold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?
SteubenNapoleon
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not HIS death-knell knolled?
And livest THOU still, Mother Earth?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O'er the embers covered and cold
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled—
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?
'Who has known me of old,' replied Earth,
'Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art overbold.'
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, 'To my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
'Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth,
'I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousandfold
Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth.
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
'Ay, alive and still bold.' muttered Earth,
'Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow to mould
The metal before it be cold;
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.'
~Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
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