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# A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 2

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PART II
TRANSLATION OF THE "NET OF FAITH" BOOK ONE: THE CORRUPTION OF THE CHURCH CAUSED BY ITS FUSION AND CONFUSION WITH TEMPORAL POWER
NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATION
The translator tried to put into modern English thoughts preserved in medieval Czech. In order to do this he felt he had to have liberty in translation and occasional license to paraphrase. As to the faithfulness to the Czech original, the translator endeavoured not to commit major distortions of essential meanings. Where he felt it advisable to paraphrase freely a certain passage or to condense a section in his own words, he marked the beginning and end of each paraphrase by a combination of brackets and colons, thus: (: ... :).
* Foreword
* Section 1
* Section 2
* Section 3
* Section 4
* Section 4a
* Section 4b
* Section 4c
* Section 5
* Section 6
* Section 7
* Section 8
* Section 8a
* Section 8b
* Section 9
* Section 10
* Section 11
* Section 12
* Section 13
* Section 14
* Section 15
* Section 16
* Section 17
* Section 18
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# A Study of Peter Chelčický's Life and a Translation from Czech of Part I of His Net of Faith (1947)/Part 1

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PART I . . . . . . . .
A HISTORICAL STUDY OF PETER CHELČICKÝ, HIS LIFE, WORK, AND PHILOSOPHY
* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Airay, Henry

From volume 1 of the work.
​Airay, Henry, s. John, of Oxford (city), pleb, Corpus Christi Coll., matric. 6 Jan., 1729-30, aged 17.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Aird, David

From volume 1 of the work.
​Aird, David, s. John, of Stirling, co. Stirling (Scotland), gent. Balliol Coll., matric. 6 Oct., 1794, aged 16.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Airey, Rev. Thomas

From volume 1 of the work.
​Airey, Rev. Thomas, s. Thomas, of Selside, Westmorland, cler. Merton Coll., matric. 1 June, 1810, aged 21, B.A. Trinity Coll., Cambridge, 1814, M.A. 1817.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Ainsworth, Isaac Ludwig

From volume 1 of the work.
​Ainsworth, Isaac Ludwig, 5s. Joseph, of Oswaldtwistle, co. Lancaster gent. New Coll., matric. 18 Oct., 1875, aged 33.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Ainsworth, John

From volume 1 of the work.
​Ainsworth, John, s. John, of Manchester, co. Lancaster, gent. Brasenose Coll., matric. 17 Oct., 1808, aged 18.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Ainsworth, Richard Henry

From volume 1 of the work.
​Ainsworth, Richard Henry, 1s. John Horrocks, of Moss Bank, Bolton le Moor, co. Lancaster, arm. Christ Church, matric. 10 Dec., 1857, aged 18.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Aird, David Mitchell

From volume 1 of the work.
​Aird, David Mitchell, 2s. John, of Glasgow, gent. St. Alban Hall, matric. 3 Nov., 1870, aged 58, of the Middle Temple 3 May, 1858.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Ainsworth, Thomas

From volume 1 of the work.
​Ainsworth, Thomas, M.A. Trinity Coll., Dublin (B.A. 1850, M.A. 1854), ad eundem 22 Feb., 1855.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Aird, David Alfred

From volume 1 of the work.
​Aird, David Alfred, o.s. David Mitchell, of London, arm. St. Mary Hall, matric. 10 April, 1869, aged 20, bar.-at-law, Middle Temple, 17 Nov., 1874, See Foster's Men at the Bar.
# Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1715-1886/Airey, John Postlethwaite

From volume 1 of the work.
​Airey, John Postlethwaite, 1s. John, of Kendal, gent. Queen's Coll., matric. 22 June, 1854, aged 18, B.A. 1858, M.A. 1861, rector of Openshaw 1867.
# Accusation

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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Accusation, a poem by John Cowper Powys
* "Accusation," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
# Accused Terrorist Transferred to Guantanamo Facility -- 2007-06-06

* related portals: Guantanamo.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.

# Accused Terrorist Transferred to Guantanamo Facility

By Jim Garamone American Forces Press Service
WASHINGTON, June 6, 2007 – An accused terrorist believed to have helped al Qaeda groups in Africa obtain arms has been transferred to the U.S. detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
Abdullahi Sudi Arale was detained in the Horn of Africa region recently, Pentagon spokesman Bryan Whitman said today. He is suspected of being a courier between the al Qaeda network in East Africa and al Qaeda in Pakistan.
Arale is considered an enemy combatant and a high-value detainee, Whitman said.
Since his return from Pakistan to Somalia in September 2006, he has held a leadership role in the organization set up to challenge the transitional government in the country.
Defense officials said Arale has been assisting various East Africa al Qaeda-affiliated extremists in acquiring weapons and explosives. He also has helped facilitate extremist travel by providing false documents for terrorists traveling into Somalia.
Arale played a significant role in the emergence of the Council of Islamic Courts in Mogadishu. The courts have evolved into a quasi-governmental entity with troops and weaponry. They controlled Mogadishu and most of southern Somalia, but left after Ethiopian troops entered the country in December.
Arale joins about 385 detainees in the Guantanamo facility, Whitman said, adding that he will be questioned about his al Qaeda dealings. Many detainees at the facility have provided information essential to understanding how al Qaeda operates and preventing future attacks, Whitman said.
Arale will go through a combatant status review tribunal, in which he will be given the opportunity to review an unclassified summary of evidence against him and contest his enemy-combatant status. The International Committee of the Red Cross will be granted access to him.
Related Sites:
    Detainee Affairs
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Clean Hands

CLEAN HANDS
MAKE this thing plain to us, O Lord! That not the triumph of the sword— Not that alone—can end the strife, But reformation of the life— But full submission to Thy Word!
​Not all the stream of blood outpoured Can Peace—the Long-desired—afford; Not tears of Mother, Maid or Wife . . . Make this thing plain!
We must root out our sins ignored, By whatsoever name adored; Our secret sins, that, ever rife, Shrink from the operating knife; Then shall we rise, renewed, restored . . . Make this thing plain!
Austin Dobson
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Convalescence

CONVALESCENCE
FROM out the dragging vastness of the sea, Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous seaweed strands, He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands One moment, white and dripping, silently, Cut like a cameo in lazuli, Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands Prone in the jeering water, and his hands Clutch for support where no support can be. So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch, He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow And sandflies dance their little lives away. The sucking waves retard, and tighter clinch The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow, And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.
Amy Lowell
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Destroyers

DESTROYERS
ON this primeval strip of western land, With purple bays and tongues of shining sand, Time, like an echoing tide, Moves drowsily in idle ebb and flow; The sunshine slumbers in the tangled grass And homely folk with simple greeting pass As to their worship or their work they go. Man, earth, and sea Seem linked in elemental harmony And my insurgent sorrow finds release In dreams of peace.
But silent, grey, Out of the curtained haze, Across the bay Two fierce destroyers glide with bows afoam And predatory gaze, Like cormorants that seek a submerged prey. An angel of destruction guards the door And keeps the peace of our ancestral home; Freedom to dream, to work, and to adore, These vagrant days, nights of untroubled breath, Are bought with death.
Henry Head
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Easter at Ypres, 1915

EASTER AT YPRES: 1915
THE sacred Head was bound and diapered, The sacred Body wrapped in charnel shroud, And hearts were breaking, hopes that towered were bowed, And life died quite when died the living Word. So lies this ruined city. She hath heard The rush of foes brutal and strong and proud, And felt their bolted fury. She is ploughed With fire and steel, and all her grace is blurred.
But with the third sun rose the Light indeed, Calm and victorious though with brows yet marred By Hell's red flame so lately visited. Nor less for thee, sweet city, better starred Than this grim hour portends, new times succeed; And thou shalt reawake, though aye be scarred.
W. S. S. Lyon
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Destroyers off Jutland

DESTROYERS OFF JUTLAND
["If lost hounds could speak when they cast up next day after an unchecked night among the wild life of the dark they would talk much as our destroyers do."—Rudyard Kipling.]
THEY had hot scent across the spumy sea, Gehenna and her sister, swift Shaitan, That in the pack, with Goblin, Eblis ran And many a couple more, full cry, foot-free; The dog-fox and his brood were fain to flee, But bare of fang and dangerous to the van That pressed them close. So when the kill began Some hounds were lamed and some died splendidly.
But from the dusk along the Skagerack, Until dawn loomed upon the Reef of Horn And the last fox had slunk back to his earth, They kept the great traditions of the pack, Staunch-hearted through the hunt, as they were born, These hounds that England suckled at the birth.
Reginald McIntosh Cleveland
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Edith Cavell

EDITH CAVELL
THE world hath its own dead; great motions start In human breasts, and make for them a place In that hushed sanctuary of the race Where every day men come, kneel, and depart. Of them, O English nurse, henceforth thou art, A name to pray on, and to all a face Of household consecration; such His grace Whose universal dwelling is the heart.
​O gentle hands that soothed the soldier's brow, And knew no service save of Christ the Lord! Thy country now is all humanity! How like a flower thy womanhood doth show In the harsh scything of the German sword, And beautifies the world that saw it die!
George Edward Woodberry
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/England

ENGLAND
ENGLAND, the home of poetry; the hearth Where the world's heart so often warmed its hands; Whose soul none but her Shakespeare understands; Whose singing is a silence round the earth; Cradle of Law, where Freedom had its birth; The grave of tyrants; winging her commands Over the oceans; envy of all lands, Jealous of none, yet worshipful of worth:
England, the acorn, whence to ages sprang The oak of empire; eagle whose safe wings Mother her brood of colonies; where rings No chain of slave; O England, for the clang And clash of battle, gird thy loins, and wage War with the Dark for thy rich heritage.
Leonard Van Noppen
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/England Yet

ENGLAND YET
SHE'S England yet! The nations never knew her; Or, if they knew, were ready to forget. She made new worlds that paid no homage to her, Because she called for none as for a debt. The bullying power who deemed all nations craven, And that her star of destiny had set, Was sure that she would seek a coward's haven— And tempted her, and found her England yet!
We learn our England, and we soon forget, To learn again that she is England yet.
​They watched Britannia ever looking forward, But could not see the things her children saw. They watched in Southern seas her boats pull shoreward, But only marked the eyeglass, heard the "Haw!" In tents, and bungalows, and outpost stations, Thin white men ruled for her, unseen, unheard, Till millions of strange races and far nations Were ready to obey her at a word.
We learn our England, and in peace forget, To learn in storm that she is England yet.
She's England yet; and men shall doubt no longer, And mourn no longer for what she has been. She'll be a greater England and a stronger— A better England than the world has seen. Our own, who reck not of a king's regalia, Tinsel of crowns, and courts that fume and fret, Are fighting for her—fighting for Australia— And blasphemously hail her "England Yet!"
She's England yet, with little to regret— Ay, more than ever, she'll be England yet!
Henry Lawson
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/England to Free Men

ENGLAND TO FREE MEN
MEN of my blood, you English men! From misty hill and misty fen, From cot, and town, and plough, and moor, Come in—before I shut the door! Into my courtyard paved with stones That keep the names, that keep the bones, Of none but English men who came Free of their lives, to guard my fame.
I am your native land who bred No driven heart, no driven head; I fly a flag in every sea Round the old Earth, of Liberty! I am the Land that boasts a crown; The sun comes up, the sun goes down— And never men may say of me, Mine is a breed that is not free.
I have a wreath! My forehead wears A hundred leaves—a hundred years I never knew the words: "You must!" And shall my wreath return to dust? Freemen! The door is yet ajar; From northern star to southern star, O ye who count and ye who delve, Come in—before my clock strikes twelve!
John Galsworthy
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/When It Is Finished

WHEN IT IS FINISHED
WHEN it is finished, Father, and we set The war-stained buckler and the bright blade by, Bid us remember then what bloody sweat, What thorns, what agony, ​Purchased our wreaths of harvest and ripe ears; Whose empty hands, whose empty hearts, whose tears In this Gethsemane Ransomed the days to be.
We leave them to Thee, Saviour. We've no price, No utmost treasure of the seas or lands, No words, no deeds, to pay their sacrifice. Only while England stands, Their pearl, their pride, their altar,—not their grave,— Bid us remember in what hours they gave All that mankind may give That we might live.
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Watchmen of the Night

WATCHMEN OF THE NIGHT
LORDS of the seas' great wilderness The light-grey warships cut the wind; The headland dwindles less and less; The great waves, breaking, drench and blind The stern-faced watcher on the deck, While England fades into a speck.
Afar on that horizon grey The sleepy homesteads one by one Shine with their cheerful lights as day Dies in the valley and is gone, While the new moon comes o'er the hill And floods the landscape, white and still.
But outward 'mid the homeless waste The battle-fleet held on its way; On either side the torn seas raced, Over the bridge blew up the spray; The quartermaster at the wheel Steered through the night his ship of steel.
Once, from a masthead, blinked a light— The Admiral spoke unto the Fleet; Swift answers flashed along the night, The charthouse glimmered through the sleet; A bell rang from the engine-room, And, ere it ceased—the great guns' boom!
Then thunder through the silence broke And rolled along the sullen deep; A hundred guns flashed fire and spoke, Which England heard not in her sleep Nor dreamed of, while her fighting sons Fed and fired the blazing guns.
​Dawn broke in England, sweet and clear; Birds in the brake, the lark in heaven Made musical the morning air; But distant, shattered, scorched and riven, Gathered the ships—aye, dawn was well After the night's dark, raging hell.
But some came not with break of light, Nor looked upon the saffron dawn; They keep the watch of endless Night, On the soft breast of ocean borne. O waking England, rise and pray For sons who guard thee night and day!
Cecil Roberts
Scapa Flow, May, 1916.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Ypres

YPRES
YPRES
CITY of stark desolation, Infinite voices of silence, Crying aloud in the day time, Whispering shrill in the moonlight, Ask of the world, appealing: "What are you now but a name?"
Hushed are your streets, and the rumble Of lorries and wagons and limbers And low, dull tread of battalions, Moving stubbornly cheerful Back of invisible fighters Muddily bedded in Flanders— These alone for your roadways, And these for the hours of darkness, Wide to inscrutable heaven Lie, in their ruin all equal, Houses and hovels abandoned, Windowiess yawnings and pillars, Chasms and doorways and gables, Tottering spectres of brickwork Strewn through the naked chambers— Never a home for the seeking, ​Not through the whole of the city, Save for the spirit-fled body. And over the breakage and rubble, Furious wastage of warfare, Rise in their piteous grandeur, Oaks, still battling the tempest, Riven and broken Cathedral, Shattered, half-pinnacled Cloth-Hall, Towers of solemn, grey greatness Calling on heaven to witness, Listening, steadfastly watchful, For boom that will herald disaster Down on their remnants of glory, Asking the world appealing: "What are we now but a name?"
City of wanton destruction, Standing nakedly awful, Token of agonized country, When was an answer demanded In so relentless a silence? How can the asking be empty? Name and naught else, in your ruins, Crowned in the heart as an emblem, Child of the ravenous booming, Page of heroical story, Greatest in still desolation, Never in all your peace-slumber Garnered you fame as in fury. Silent mother of splendour, Stand when your ruins have crumbled And, sinking to soil of Flanders, Merged with the valiant sleepers; And after that and for always, As long as the breath of men's honour Is to the earth as the springtime, Speak with your voices undying;— How in the anguish and glory Belgium and Britain you stood for, World of men's honour undaunted ​Just in the lines round your city, Where the fierce waves of ambition, Ruthlessly seeking their purpose, Sank with the dead into Flanders. Desolate spirit unconquered, Here where the fury lingered, Here where the graves of the honoured Around your ruins are clustered, Rise in your triumph eternal, Built in the heart of man.
Gorell
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Wireless

KEEPING THE SEAS
WIRELESS
NOW to those who search the deep— Gleam of Hope and Kindly Light,— Once, before you turn to sleep, Breathe a message through the night. Never doubt that they'll receive it. Send it, once, and you'll believe it.
Think you these aerial wires Whisper more than spirits may? Think you that our strong desires Touch no distance when we pray? Think you that no wings are flying 'Twixt the living and the dying?
Inland here, upon your knees, You shall breathe from urgent lips Round the ships that guard your seas Fleet on fleet of angel ships; Yea, the guarded may so bless them That no terrors can distress them.
You shall guide the darkling prow, Kneeling—thus—and far inland; You shall touch the storm-beat brow Gently as a spirit-hand. Even a blindfold prayer may speed them, And a little child may lead them.
Alfred Noyes
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Verdun

VERDUN
THREE hundred thousand men, but not enough To break this township on a winding stream; More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff That built a nation's manhood may redeem The Master's hopes and realize his dream.
They pave the way to Verdun; on their dust The Hohenzollerns mount and, hand in hand, Gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust And higher hills must heap, ere they may stand To feed their eyes upon the promised land.
​One barrow, born of women, lifts them high, Built up of many a thousand human dead. Nursed on their mother's bosoms, now they lie— A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped, A mountain for these royal feet to tread.
A Golgotha, upon whose carrion clay Justice of myriad men still in the womb Shall heave two crosses; crucify and flay Two memories accurs'd; then in the tomb Of world-wide execration give them room.
Verdun! A clarion thy name shall ring Adown the ages and the Nations see Thy monuments of glory. Now we bring Thank-offering and bend the reverent knee, Thou star upon the crown of Liberty!
Eden Phillpotts
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Vive la France

VIVE LA FRANCE!
FRANCELINE rose in the dawning grey, And her heart would dance though she knelt to pray, For her man Michel had holiday, Fighting for France.
She offered her prayer by the cradle-side, And with baby palms folded in hers she cried: "If I have but one prayer, dear, crucified Christ—save France!
"But if I have two, then, by Mary's grace, Carry me safe to the meeting-place, Let me look once again on my dear love's face, Save him for France!"
She crooned to her boy: "Oh, how glad he'll be Little three-months old, to set eyes on thee! For, 'Rather than gold, would I give,' wrote he, 'A son to France.'
​"Come, now, be good, little stray sauterelle, For we're going by-by to thy papa Michel, But I'll not say where for fear thou wilt tell, Little pigeon of France!
"Six days' leave and a year between! But what would you have? In six days clean, Heaven was made," said Franceline, "Heaven and France."
She came to the town of the nameless name, To the marching troops in the street she came, And she held high her boy like a taper flame Burning for France.
Fresh from the trenches and grey with grime, Silent they march like a pantomime; "But what need of music? My heart beats time— Vive la France!"
His regiment comes. Oh, then where is he? "There is dust in my eyes, for I cannot see,— Is that my Michel to the right of thee, Soldier of France?"
Then out of the ranks a comrade fell,— "Yesterday—'twas a splinter of shell— And he whispered thy name, did thy poor Michel, Dying for France."
The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed Like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed, As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed: "Vive la France!"
Charlotte Holmes Crawford
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/We Willed it not

WE WILLED IT NOT
WE willed it not. We have not lived in hate, Loving too well the shires of England thrown From sea to sea to covet your estate, Or wish one flight of fortune from your throne.
We had grown proud because the nations stood Hoping together against the calumny That, tortured of its old barbarian blood, Barbarian still the heart of man should be.
Builders there are who name you overlord, Building with us the citadels of light, Who hold as we this chartered sin abhorred, And cry you risen Cæsar of the Night.
Beethoven speaks with Milton on this day, And Shakespeare's word with Goethe's beats the sky, In witness of the birthright you betray, In witness of the vision you deny.
We love the hearth, the quiet hills, the song, The friendly gossip come from every land; And very peace were now a nameless wrong— You thrust this bitter quarrel to our hand.
For this your pride the tragic armies go, And the grim navies watch along the seas; You trade in death, you mock at life, you throw To God the tumult of your blasphemies.
You rob us of our love-right. It is said. In treason to the world you are enthroned. We rise, and, by the yet ungathered dead, Not lightly shall the treason be atoned.
John Drinkwater