Oh, we know you can 'take' it.
A hunter went out hunting and was confronted by a grizzly. He took a shot, the grizzly looked around puzzled, saw the hunter cowering behind his gun, and stripped and bu**ered him. The hunter crawled back, nursing his sore bits, swearing revenge.
Next week, wounds healed, with a bigger gun, he returned. The bear was rooting around in the same patch of berry bushes. The hunter took a shot, and to his horror, the bear just swatted it off, and turned to look who was bothering him. He sighed when he saw the hunter, took away his gun and did him again. It was quite painful this time. The bear put his all into it. The hunter crawled back, too worn out to even think revenge.
But think it he did, being born of a martial race, and two weeks later, pads and bandages off, he returned hopefully with a really big heavy calibre rifle. He sneaked up on the bear and took a shot. And his blood ran cold as the bear turned and looked disbelievingly at him. The bear came up, took away his gun, and undressed him, almost tenderly. And he asked him the question I've been wanting to ask you.
It isn't about the hunting, is it?
A Apocryphal story clearly coming from an indian narrative -
In thy western halls of gold
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told
Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,
With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,
Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.
Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar:
But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.
Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre:
The soul delighted on each accent dwells, -
Enraptur'd dwells, - not daring to respire,
The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.
'Tis awful silence then again;
Expectant stand the spheres;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,
Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,
Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,
And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.
Thou biddest Shapspeare wave his hand,
And quickly forward spring
The Passions - a terrific band -
And each vibrates the string
That with its tyrant temper best accords,
While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.
A silver trumpet Spenser blows,
And, as its martial notes to silence flee,
From a virgin chorus flows
A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.
'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre
Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,
Calling youth from idle slumbers,
Rousing them from Pleasure's lair: -
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
And melt the soul to pity and to love.
But when Thoujoinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:
Thy dying tones that fill the air,
And charm the ear of evening fair,
From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth. ~ Keats
- We will have to defend what is ours, from our enemies, amen.