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De Franse dichter Auguste Barbier werd geboren op 28 april 1805 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 april 2008.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Iambes, le progres
à quoi servent, grand dieu ! Les leçons de l' histoire
pour l' avenir des citoyens,
et tous les faits notés dans une page noire
par la main des historiens,
si les mêmes excès et les mêmes misères
reparaissent dans tous les temps,
et si de tous les temps les exemples des pères
sont imités par leurs enfants ?
ô pauvres insensés ! Qui, le front ceint de chêne
devant l' univers enchanté,
voilà six ans bientôt, entonnions d' une haleine
l' hymne brûlant de liberté !
Nous chantions tous en choeur, dans une sainte ivresse,
la vierge pure comme l' or,
sans penser que plus tard l' immortelle déesse
devait tant nous coûter encor.
Nous rêvions un ciel doux, un ciel exempt d' orages,
un éternel et vaste azur,
tandis que sur nos fronts s' amassaient les nuages :
l' avenir devenait obscur.
Et nous avons revu ce qu' avaient vu nos pères,
le sang humain dans les ruisseaux,
et l' angoisse des nuits glaçant le coeur des mères,
quand le plomb battait les carreaux ;
le régicide infect aux vengeances infâmes
et ses stupides attentats,
la baïonnette ardente entrant au sein des femmes,
les enfants percés dans leurs bras :
enfin les vieux forfaits d' une époque cruelle
se sont tous relevés, hélas !
Pour nous faire douter qu' en sa marche éternelle
le monde ait avancé d' un pas.
Auguste Barbier (28 april 1805 14 februari 1882)
De Tataarse dichter Ğabdulla Tuqay werd geboren op 28 april 1886 in Qoşlawıç in Kazan, Rusland (tegenwoordig Tatarstan). Zie ook mijn blog van 28 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 april 2008.
The Shuraleh (Fragment)
(A mythical horned demon,
which inhabits the forests of Qazan.)
Past Qazan into the country
There's a village called Qirlay.
In that village even hens cluck.
God alone could tell you why.
Even though I was not born there,
For a while it was my home.
There in spring I tilled and harrowed,
In the autumn reaped the loam.
I recall in all directions
Lay the backwood's broad delight.
Grasslands there of glossy velvet
Dazzled everybody's sight.
And is the village large? О no!
It's just a hamlet in a ring.
All its daily drinking water
Comes from one, lone tiny spring.
Ğabdulla Tuqay (28 april 1886 15 april 1913)
Standbeeld in Sint Petersburg
De Schotse schrijver Alistair Stuart MacLean werd geboren op 28 april 1922 in Glasgow. Zie ook Zie ook mijn blog van 28 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 april 2008.
Uit: Ice Station Zebra
" My executive offucer, Torpedoman Rawlings and Radioman Zabrinski," Swanson said formally, " don't like this."
...
" They won't let you go through with it," Swanson went on, " unless, that is, you will permit them to accompany you, which they have volunteered to do."
" Volunteered," Rawlings sniffed. " You, you, and you."
" I don't want them," I said.
" Gracious, ain't he?" Rawlings asked of no one in particular. " You might at least have said thanks, Doc."
" You are putting the lives of your men in danger, Commander Swanson. You know what your orders said....
" What do your men think of your making them risk their lives to save the good name of the submarine service?"
" You heard the captain," Rawlings said. " We're volunteers. Look at Zabrinski there, anyone can see that he is a man cast in a heroic mould."
" Have you thought of what happens," I said, " if the ice closes in when we're away and the captain has to take the ship down."
" Don't even talk of it," Zabrinski urged. " I'm not all that heroic."
Alistair MacLean (28 april 1922 - 2 februari 1987)
De Engelse dichter en vertaler Charles Cotton werd geboren op 28 april 1630 in Beresford in Staffordshire. Hij is bekend geworden door zijn vertaling van het werk van Michel de Montaigne en door zijn bijdragen aan The Compleat Angler en zijn invloed op The Compleat Gamester.
To Coelia
WHEN, Coelia, must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne'er bless'd a lover's eyes?
My state is more advanced than when
I first attempted thee:
I sued to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.
I've served my time faithful and true,
Expecting to be placed
In happy freedom, as my due,
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love's power,
We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet! I'm weary grown,
That I pretend such haste;
Since none to surfeit e'er was known
Before he had a taste:
My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man's estate,
He is impatient now.
Charles Cotton (28 april 1630 16 februari 1687)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 28 april 2007.
De Duitse schrijver Bruno Apitz werd geboren in Leipzig op 29 april 1900.
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