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cannut kura; hin low!
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, Shriek Murder and Dismay.
Bid the full breath of the organ reply;
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;
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And cease the world's ensanguined strife,
| And fiery hearts and arméd hands And reconcile my soul to life ;
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 flitting 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 ;
Men start not at the battle-cry, -
0, be it never heard again ! Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
Thy warfare only ends with life.
Through weary day and weary year ;
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.
“Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?"
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hişsing bolt of scorn ;
The victory of endurance born.
The eternal years of God are hers;
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,
SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.
FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy.couch are strewing, How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
Fairy strains of music fall, And take possession of my father's chair !
Every sense in slumber dewing, Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Dream of fighting fields no more ; Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come Far from my native land. That instant came At the day break from the fallow, A robin on the threshold ; though so tame, And the bittern sound his drum, At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
Booming from the scelgy shallow. And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, Ruder sounds shall none be near, And seemed to say, - past friendship to renew, -1 Guards nor warders challenge here;
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.
iv. “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."
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 donc ; | But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one, -
TUBAL CAIN. “Now tell us what 't was all about,” . Young Peterkin he cries ;
OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might, And little Wilhelmine looks up
In the days when earth was young ; With wonder-waiting eyes, –
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, “Now tell us all about the war,
The strokes of his hammer rung : And what they fought each other for.'
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and the spear. “It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
And he sang : “Hurrah for my handiwork ! “Who put the French to rout;
Hurrah for the spear and the sword ! But what they fought cach other for
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, I could not well make out;
For he shall be king and lord." But everybody said," quoth he, “That 't was a famous victory.
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade “My father' lived at Blenheim then,
| As the crown of his desire : Yon little stream hard by;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong, They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
Till they shouted loud for glee, And he was forced to fly;
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, So with his wife and child he fled,
And spoils of the forest free. Nor had he where to rest his head.
And they sang : “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew !
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, “With fire and sword the country round
And hurrah for the metal true !" Was wasted far and wide;
But a sudden change came o'er his heart, And many a childing mother there,
Ere the setting of the sun, And new-born baby died;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain But things like that, you know, must be
For the evil he had done ; At every famous victory.
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed, “They say it was a shocking sight
In their lust for carnage blind. After the field was won, —
And he said : “Alas! that ever I made, For many thousand bodies here
Or that skill of mine should plan, Lay rotting in the sun ;
The spear and the sword for men whose joy But things like that, you know, must be Is to slay their fellow-man !" After a famous victory.
| And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore, “Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And his furnace smouldered low. And our good Prince Eugene."
But he rose at last with a cheerful face, “Why, 't was a very wicked thing !".
And a bright courageous eye, Said little Wilhelmine.
And bared his strong right arm for work, “Nay, nay, my little girl !” quoth he,
While the quick flames mounted high. “It was a famous victory.
And he sang : “Hurrah for my handiwork !"
And the red sparks lit the air ;
“Not alone for the blade was the bright steel “And everybody praised the duke
made," Who this great fight did win.”
And he fashioned the first ploughshare. “But what good came of it at last ?” Quoth little Peterkin.
And men, taught wisdom from the past, “Why, that I cannot tell," said he ;
In friendship joined their hands, “ But 't was a famous victory."
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, "ROBERT SOUTHEY. | And ploughed the willing lands;