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POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR.

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ODE TO PEACE.

DAUGATER of God! that sit'st on high
Amid the dances of the sky,
And guidest with thy gentle sway
The planets on their tuneful way ;

Sweet Peace ! shall ne'er again
The smile of thy most holy face,
From thine ethereal dwelling-place,
Rejoice the wretched, weary race

Of discord-breathing men ?
Too long, O gladness-giving Queen !
Thy tarrying in heaven has been ;
Too long o'er this fair blooming world
The flag of blood has been unfurled,

Polluting God's pure day ;
Whilst, as each maddening people reels,
War onward drives his scythéd wheels,
And at his horses' bloody heels

Shriek Murder and Dismay.
Oft have I wept to hear the cry
Of widow wailing bitterly ;
To see the parent's silent tear
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 !
Then come from thy serene abode,
Thou gladness-giving child of God !
And cease the world's ensanguined strife,
And reconcile my soul to life;

For much I long to see,
Ere I shall to the grave descend,
Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
And to the world's remotest end

Wave Love and Harmony !

Come while our voices are blended in song,

Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove, Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,

Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love ;

Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long ! Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine,

Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,

Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea ! Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea !

Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee,

Brothers, once more round this altar of thine ! Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain !

Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky ! 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 ! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky !

Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain !

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

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.

WILLIAM TENNENT.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all 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. No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;

HYMN OF PEACE. ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long!

Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love!

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. 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.

“Ah ha! old wom-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 youruncle 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?

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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!

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

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.

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O’ER

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

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 clang, 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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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.

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.

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.”.

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,

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“Now tell us what 't was all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes, “Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,

In the days when earth was young ;
By the fierce red light his furnace bright,

The strokes of his hammer rung:
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.
And he sang :

“Hurrah for my handiwork ! Hurrah for the spear and the sword ! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,

For he shall be king and lord.”

VI.

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, “That 't was a famous victory.

VII. My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly ;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one prayed for a strong steel blade

As the crown of his desire : And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,

And spoils of the forest free. And they sang :

“Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew ! Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,

And hurrah for the metal true !"

VIII.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide ;
And many a childing mother there,

And new-born baby died ;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

IX.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun ;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene.”
Why, 't was a very wicked thing !”

Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl !" quoth he,
“ It was a famous victory.

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,

Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,

In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said : “Alas ! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man !”
And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe ;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,

And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,

While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang : “Hurrah for my handiwork !”

And the red sparks lit the air ; “Not alone for the blade was the bright steel

made," And he fashioned the first ploughshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And ploughed the willing lands;

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“Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death,

Not by me are needed." Marvelled much that henchman bold, That his laird, so stout of old,

Now so meekly pleaded.

“Woe's the day,” he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head,

And a look of pity ; “Ury's honest lord reviled, Mock of knave and sport of child,

In his own good city!

“Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line,

And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst, we'll teach Civil look and decent speech

To these boyish prancers !" “Marvel not, mine ancient friend, Like beginning, like the end !"

Quoth the laird of Ury ; “Is the sinful servant more Than his gracious Lord who bore

Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

“Give me joy that in his name I can bear, with patient frame,

All these vain ones offer ; While for them he suffered long, Shall I answer wrong with wrong,

Scoffing with the scoffer?

“Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,

With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen Riding out from Aberdeen

With bared heads to meet me;

“When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door ;

And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown

From red fields of slaughter.

“Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, Hard the old friends' falling off,

Hard to learn forgiving ; But the Lord his own rewards, And his love with theirs accords

Warm and fresh and living.

And sang: “Hurrah for Tubal Cain !

Our stanch good friend is he ;
And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword !"

CHARLES MACKAY.

BARCLAY OF URY.

Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,

Rode the laird of Ury ;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,

Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,

Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,

Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet with calm and stately mien
Up the streets of Aberdeen

Came he slowly riding;
And to all he saw and heard
Answering not with bitter word,

Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward :
Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! Through the town

Drive the Quaker coward !"
But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud :

"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay !”
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle-tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly;
Who, with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,

Cried aloud : “God save us !
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle-deep in Lutzen's blood,

With the brave Gustavus ?"
“Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ;

pray thee.
Passive to his holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,

Even though he slay me.

"Put it up, I

“Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light

Up the blackness streaking ;

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