The Great Interregnum
Feel, oh feel my brothers how the piss and vinegar boils in your veins.
Pacing, pacing, how you can't sit still, ten thousand ancestors bear down upon thee, you feel the hour that flings, that hour is nigh, hurry, come hurry and wait !
In an age past you might have held a comission, his magesty's expedition to India, Brigadier James, and his company, riding gloriously alongside the Duke of Wellington for the honour of the empire, by George you might even forget those drear Hannoverians were even in charge…
But alas here ennui and entropy consumes you, born too late to bludgeon Roundheads to death in the myre at Hungerford, why hath the good lord endowed thee so, and left stranded in the perculiar doldrums of time.
All the storms in the world brew on every horizon, but the wind just won't blow.
The pallisades of Alesia call thee, doesn't your heart yearn for blood, and the soil worthy of it. Turning and turning, the nebulous culture soul burns impressions into the very dreams of the man who can wield it, yet refuses to form, he reaches out for the thing like sand still eludes his grip.
For the Man cut from the Shropshire clay, who reders unto Rome, where the very Vicar of Christ himself lay apostste, that your very faith may be galvanised, that the furnace of hard times might duly forge the man you must be.
Longing for the blessed 8th sacrament, like the 8th day of creation when Christ himself fulfilled the word, blessed ointment be outpoured.
But still we langish, for this suffering our souls must bear, so that we may be forged into such men, knights awaiting our Lord, Soldiers awaiting our great general…
Subjects, awaiting our King.