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What to him is friend foeman, Rise of mom er det of sun, of nia
It and of
Close his his work is done!
POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR.
ODE TO PEACE.
Come while our voices are blended in song,
Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove, DAUGHTER of God! that sit'st on high
Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove, Amid the dances of the sky,
Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, And guidest with thy gentle sway
Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love ; The planets on their tuneful way ;
Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long ! Sweet Peace ! shall ne'er again The smile of thy most holy face,
Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine, From thine ethereal dwelling place,
Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Rejoice the wretched, weary race
Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,
Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea ! Too long, O gladness-giving Queen ! Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea ! Thy tarrying in heaven has been ;
Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Too long o'er this fair blooming world Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, The flag of blood has been unfurled,
Brothers, once more round this altar of thine ! Polluting God's pure day; Whilst, as each maddening people reels,
Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain ! War onward drives his scythéd wheels,
Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky ! And at his horses' bloody heels
Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main,
Bid the full breath of the organ reply ;
Let the loud tempest of voices reply ;
Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main ! Of widow wailing bitterly ;
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky ! To see the parent's silent tear
Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain !
And I have felt so sore
ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and arméd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm and fresh and still ;
Alone the chirp of fitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! | The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
“Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?"
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.
FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."
Men start not at the battle-cry,
0, be it never heard again !
Soon rested those who ght; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare ! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year ; A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown, yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,
The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here!
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Every sense in slumber dewing,
Armor's clany, or war-steed champing,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here;
Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go ; Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat
With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun ;
Roll something large and round,
In playing there, had found;
Who stood expectant by ;
And, with a natural sigh, “'T is some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; And now,
when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain ; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late,
He went for the cows when the work was done ; But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one,
“I find them in the garden,
For there's many hereabout; And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in the great victory."