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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!


of woman?
Lay him how, ay him low,
In the clover on the snow!
What canes he? he cannot know,
Lay hin- low,




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,
Of discord-breathing men ?

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 ;
Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Let the loud tempest of voices reply ;
Oft have I wept to hear the cry

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 !
For children fallen beneath the spear ;

And I have felt so sore
The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)

The shape of man I bore !

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Then come from thy serene abode,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
Thou gladness-giving child of God !
And cease the world's ensanguined strife,

And fiery hearts and arméd hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.
And reconcile my soul to life ;
For much I long to see,

Ah! never shall the land forget
Ere I shall to the grave descend,

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Thy hand its blessed branch extend,

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
And to the world's remotest end

Upon the soil they fought to save.
Wave Love and Harmony !

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.
ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long ! No solemn host goes trailing by

Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! | The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;



“Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?"
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose ;
My heart felt everything but calm repose ;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears ;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ;
And stooping to the child, the old man said,
“Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again ;
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."
The child approached, and with her fingers light
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale, — thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier ! what's the world to me?




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,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.



How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair !
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind ;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold ; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say, – past friendship to renew,

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,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing,
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more ;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armor's clany, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

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;

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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,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun ;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by ;
And then the old man shook his head,

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.

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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."

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