man

woman?

Close his

eyes; ?

· his work is dine !
What to him is friend os forman
Rise
of

horn er det of Sun
tand

kiss
Lay him low, lay him how ,
In the clever on the snow!
What cares

he? he cannot

cannut kura; hin low!

Go. Hoken

Layh

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,
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, 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.
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 BATTLE-FIELD.
The shape of man I bore !
Then come from thy serene abode,

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Thou gladness-giving child of God !

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.
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 flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,
HYMN OF PEACE.

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 ;

WILLIAM TENNENT.

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
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.

“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?

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hişsing 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,

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 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.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

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.
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
And up they flew like banners in the wind ; Trump nor pibroch summon here
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
And told of twenty years that I had spent

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;

VIII.

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,
VI.

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,
VII.

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;

IX.

X.

XI.