Obrazy na stronie

Then to strike him and lay him low,
That were a public merit, far,
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin;
But the red life spilt for a private blow-
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war
Are scarcely even akin.


O me, why have they not buried me deep enough?
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ?
Maybe still I am but half-dead;
Then I cannot be wholly dumb;
I will cry to the steps above my head,
And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come
To bury me, bury me
Deeper, ever so little deeper.



My life has crept so long on a broken wing
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,
That I come to be grateful at last for a little


My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs,
And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer
And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns
Over Orion's grave low down in the west,
That like a silent lightning under the stars

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the


And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming


' And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to Mars As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear

delight To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so


That had been in a weary world my one thing

bright; And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair When I thought that a war would arise in defence

of the right, That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height,


Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire :


No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore,

And the cobweb woven

across the cannon's


Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.


And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew,

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It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure

and true),

'It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,

That old hysterical mock-disease should die.'
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.


Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims

Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and


Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;

And hail once more to the banner of battle


Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall


For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring


Yet God's just doom shall be wreak’d on a giant


And many a darkness into the light shall leap,
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names,
And noble thought be freer under the sun,
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ;
For the long, long canker of peace is over and done

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