1. Η Αναγέννηση και η Θρησκευτική Μεταρρύθμιση
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| Η Αναγεννησιακή Φλωρεντία της Ιταλίας, η καρδιά της Αναγέννησης του Μεσαίωνα. |
από τον εκπαιδευτικό Γιάννη Σουδία
Η σχολή των Αθηνών αριστούργημα του Ραφαήλ
Η Αναγέννηση και η Θρησκευτική Μεταρρύθμιση
Αξίζει να δείτε την εξαιρετική παρουσίαση που υπάρχει στο blog του 8ου Δημοτικού Σχολείου Νάουσας
Η σχολή των Αθηνών αριστούργημα του Ραφαήλ
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| Από το έργο κυριολεκτικά αναδύεται μια πίστη στον άνθρωπο σαν φορέα της μοίρας του, η οποία τονίζεται ιδιαίτερα με τον τρόπο που εμφανίζονται οι μορφές του Πλάτωνα και του Αριστοτέλη. |
2. Από τις Γεωγραφικές Ανακαλύψεις στο Διαφωτισμό
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| Χάρτης την εποχή των Γεωγραφικών Ανακαλύψεων
Η Γαλλική Επανάσταση ( 1789 )
 Οι Έλληνες κάτω από την οθωμανική και τη λατινική κυριαρχία (1453-1821)    Η θρησκευτική και η πολιτική οργάνωση των Ελλήνων Μέσα από το συγκεκριμένο πολύ αξιόλογο λογισμικό του Παύλου Τάση μπορείτε να γνωρίσετε περισσότερα για τους ήρωες και την επανάσταση του 1821. Κλικ στην εικόνα που ακολουθεί.  Παιδάκια μου καλά!!! Τελείωσε η ενότητα !! Ξέρετε τι σημαίνει αυτό!! Επαναληψούλα.... Ξεκινήστε κάνοντας αυτό το κουίζ   Εμμανουήλ Παπάς,
ο Σερραίος Αγωνιστής
Ο Εμμανουήλ Παπάς ήταν Φιλικός και αγωνιστής του 1821, πρωτεργάτης της εξέγερσης στη
Χαλκιδική. Υπήρξε από τις αγνότερες και ηρωικότερες μορφές του Αγώνα της Ανεξαρτησίας.
Γεννημένος στη Δοβίστα Σερρών, που σήμερα έχει το όνομά το, το 1772, ήταν γιος κληρικού.
Ανέπτυξε , παρά τις περιορισμένες γραμματικές του γνώσεις, μεγάλη εμπορική δραστηριότητα
στη Σέρρες και αναδείχτηκε σε μεγαλέμπορο και τραπεζίτη με καταστήματα στη Βιέννη
και την Κωνσταντινούπολη. Ο πατέρας του Δημήτριος πλούσιος προύχοντας της περιοχής,
νεότατος ακόμα χειροτονήθηκε ιερέας και τιμήθηκε με το εκκλησιαστικό αξίωμα του Οικο-
νόμου. Από κει προέρχεται και το οικογενειακό όνομα Παππάς. Μετά τη στοιχειώδη μόρφω
σή του στο χωριό, μετέβη στις Σέρρες για να συμπληρώσει τις σπουδές του στην εκεί περιώ-
νυμη σχολή.Όταν αποφοίτησε από τη σχολή, επανήλθε στη Δοβίστα όπου και παντρεύτηκε.
Στην πορεία του ταξιδιού από τη Μονή Εσφιγμένου προς την Ύδρα το 1821, εξαντλημένος από
τον μακραίωνο αγώνα και τις κακουχίες, υπέστη καρδιακό επεισόδιο και πέθανε.
Προς τιμήν του ο δήμος στον οποίο ανήκει κι ο τόπος του καταγωγής του πήρε το όνομά του.
 Ιωάννα Β.Μάρκος Μπότσαρης  Και κάτι το οποίο δεν είναι και πολύ γνωστό είναι η όπερα του Παύλου Καρρέρ, "Μάρκος Μπότσαρης" Ακούστε την |
Επιπλέον άξιο αναφοράς είναι το ποίημα του αμερικανού ποιητή Fitz Green Halleck " Marcos Bozzaris"
MARCO BOZZARIS
by: Fitz-Greene HalleckAt midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.
An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his at last.
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud,
And head, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike! -- till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike! -- for your altars and your fires;
Strike! -- for the green graves of your sires;
God, and your native land!"
They fought like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their loud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's repose,--
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death,
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first born's breath;
Come, when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke:
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet song and dance and wine;
And thou art terrible: -- the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come in her crowning hour,--and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and field of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed:
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,--
And even she who gave thee birth
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, th' immortal names
That were not born to die.
Ιωάννης Καποδίστριας
Παρακολουθήστε την παρακάτω παρουσίαση για τον πρώτο κυβερνήτη του Ανεξάρτητου ελληνικού κράτους
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then press'd that monarch's throne -- a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.
An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his at last.
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud,
And head, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike! -- till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike! -- for your altars and your fires;
Strike! -- for the green graves of your sires;
God, and your native land!"
They fought like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd; -- but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their loud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's repose,--
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death,
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first born's breath;
Come, when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke:
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet song and dance and wine;
And thou art terrible: -- the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come in her crowning hour,--and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and field of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music-breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed:
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,--
And even she who gave thee birth
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, th' immortal names
That were not born to die.
- Ας περιηγηθούμε στα χρόνια της Ελληνικής Επανάστασης κι ας γνωρίσουμε τα σημαντικότερα πρόσωπα, μέσα από την εφαρμογή ενός εξαιρετικού δασκάλου.
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Παρακολουθήστε την παρακάτω παρουσίαση για τον πρώτο κυβερνήτη του Ανεξάρτητου ελληνικού κράτους
ελπιζω να ειναι ευκολο το τεστ
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφήΘα είναι!! Χρειάζεται όμως και λίγο διάβασμα!!!
ΔιαγραφήΜΗ ΜΑΣ ΒΑΛΕΤΕ ΔΥΣΚΟΛΑ ΣΚΕΦΤΗΤΕ ΚΑΙ ΠΟΛΥΤΕΧΝΕΙΟ!!!!!
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφήΔεν μου άρεσε καθόλου η Ιστορία αλλά για να παρεις 10 με τόνο πρέπει διάβασμα :)
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφήΟλο το βιβλίο το τελειώσαμε της Ιστορίας !!!
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφή