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- Edwin_James_Milliken abstract "Edwin James Milliken (1839 Ireland – 26 August 1897), was a Punch editor, journalist, satirical humorist and poet. He is best known for his oft-quoted poem "Death and his brother sleep", notably quoted by Winston Churchill in the prelude to World War II when he felt that parliament was not taking the prospect of a war against Hitler seriously enough. He produced a series of comic poems published as The 'Arry Papers between 1874 and 1897. He worked as journalist on the London Figaro in 1872 and joined Punch in 1877. His creation of 'Arry, a bombastic Cockney, resulted in a successful series of poems which were hailed for their phonetic precision. Milliken described 'Arry as "really appalling. He is not a creature to be laughed at or with." In 1883 he published The Modern Ars Amandi.Milliken's first association with Punch occurred on 2 January 1875 with a few lines entitled "A Voice from Venus", that planet's transit having just taken place. This was his first contribution and, since he was a newcomer, he was asked for an assurance that he was indeed the author. From then on his contributions were regular and he was welcomed to the staff in early 1877.Milliken was trained for, and spent the beginning of his career, with a large engineering firm. The literary world, though, was always his first love and his contributions to a few magazines and journals initially satisfied this bent. His first accredited work was a memorial poem to Charles Dickens printed in The Gentleman's Magazine in 1870.He died on 26 August 1897 and was buried at West Norwood Cemetery.".
- Edwin_James_Milliken birthDate "1839".
- Edwin_James_Milliken birthYear "1839".
- Edwin_James_Milliken deathDate "1897-08-26".
- Edwin_James_Milliken deathYear "1897".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken dateOfBirth "1839".
- Edwin_James_Milliken dateOfDeath "1897-08-26".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken name "Milliken, Edwin James".
- Edwin_James_Milliken quote "--07-12".
- Edwin_James_Milliken quote "I am but one of many; never saw Thy face, or heard the voice that now is stilled. My spirit is but little apt to awe Of lofty-perched mortality; and yet My heart is heavy with a keen regret, Mine eyes with unaccustomed tears are filled. We of the throng lead little lives, apart From all the genial stir and glow of art, The comradeship of genius, and the breath Of that large life to which our low-pulsed life is death. Slow-footed, bowed, we toil through narrow ways, And linger out our dull and unrecorded days. But thou! — thou had'st an eye to mark The feeble light that burned within our dark; A sympathy as wide as heaven's free air; A glance as bright As heaven's own light, That, pure amid pollution, pierceth everywhere. Not beggary's rags, not squalor's grime, The crust of ignorance, the stain of crime, Could hide from thee the naked human soul. Thou had'st our Shakespeare's ken, and Howard's heart; Not puppets we, God's poor, to play our part On thy mimetic stage, mere foils grotesque, Apt adjuncts of thine art's bright picturesque. Our loves, our hates, our hopes and fears, Our sins and sorrows, smiles and tears, To thee were real as to us, who knew That though would'st limn them with a hand as true And tender in its touch, as though it drew The finer traits and passions of thy peers. That sense so sure, that wit so strong, Did battle on our side against the oppressor's wrong, Because thine honest heart did burn with scorn Of high-perched insolence everywhere; And knightly, though unknighted, thou did'st dare To champion the feeble and forlorn. Though not in fairy forest, leaguered tower, By haunted lake, or startled Beauty's bower, Did'st thou go seeking them; but in foul lairs Not else remembered even in good men's prayers. In hidden haunts of cruelty, where no light, Save of thy sympathy, pierced the night. Thence, though the source might all unlovely seem, Unfit for painter's touch or poet's dream; Thou, painter-poet as thou wert, did'st draw The hidden beauty meaner eyes ne'er saw; But which, set forth upon thy living page, Drew all the eyes and hearts of an unthinking age. All inarticulate we; thou wert our voice; Thou in our poor rejoicing did'st rejoice, Smile gently with our pitiful mirth, and grieve When Pain, our chill familiar, plucked each ragged sleeve. Therefore we love thee, better than we knew, Old friend and true. Thy silent passing to an honoured tomb Has filled a people's heart with more than fleeting gloom. Moreover, thou did'st bring us of thy beat, Thou, with the great an honoured guest, And treasured by the chiefs of birth and brain, To simple and unlearned souls wert plain. The common heart on thine enchantment hung, While genius, stooping from her heights, Lent to the lowest her delights, And spake to each in his own mother tongue. Who now like thee shall lighten human care? By words where mirth with pathos meets, By most delectable conceits, Thou gav'st us laughter that our babes might share; And jollity, that had no touch of shame. No satyr's brand besmirches thy fair fame. Thy meteor fancy, by its quickening sleight, Peopled our world with creatures of delight. Not phantoms they, but very friends they seem, Dear and familiar as are few Of those around us; all too true And quick for shadows of Romance's dream. Most human-hearted they, or grave or gay, But touched with that unspeakable impress Of genius, airy wit, rare tenderness, That marks them as thine own — So touched, they in our memories live for aye, Unaged by time and sacred from decay. The friends we cherish pass, the foes we hate; All living things towards Death's portal move; Not even thee a nation's pride and love Could keep from that dark gate. But these, thy creatures, cannot die; Companions of all generations, they Shall keep thy mem'ry from decay More surely than that glorious grave where thou dost lie. Therefore, let critic carp or bigot prate, Sniff fault or folly here or there, Contemn thy creed, or thee declare Not wholly wise, or something less than great. Thou hast the people's heart, that few may gain; Not yielded to mere strenuous might of brain, Prowess of arm, or force of will, But to the strong and true and tender soul, The human in excelsis, that can thrill Through all humanity's pulses, till the whole Great scattered brotherhood again is one. No chill star-radiance thine; thou art a sun Of central warmth; lord of our smiles and tears, An uncrowned king of men through all the years.".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken title "A Man of the Crowd to Charles Dickens".
- Edwin_James_Milliken title "Death and his brother sleep".
- Edwin_James_Milliken description "Irish writer".
- Edwin_James_Milliken description "Irish writer".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken comment "Edwin James Milliken (1839 Ireland – 26 August 1897), was a Punch editor, journalist, satirical humorist and poet. He is best known for his oft-quoted poem "Death and his brother sleep", notably quoted by Winston Churchill in the prelude to World War II when he felt that parliament was not taking the prospect of a war against Hitler seriously enough. He produced a series of comic poems published as The 'Arry Papers between 1874 and 1897.".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken givenName "Edwin James".
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- Edwin_James_Milliken name "Edwin James Milliken".
- Edwin_James_Milliken name "Milliken, Edwin James".
- Edwin_James_Milliken surname "Milliken".