A JUNE 8, 1857. HUNDRED, a thousand to one; even so : The swarming howling wretches below Skene looked at his pale young wife : "Is the time come?"-" The time is come į " Young, strong, and so full of life: The agony struck them dumb. Close his arm about her now, “THY BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIETH" 215 "Will it hurt much?"-" No, mine own: I wish I could bear the pang for both." "I wish I could bear the pang alone: Courage, dear, I am not loth." Kiss and kiss: "It is not pain One kiss more."-" And yet one again."- I retain this little poem, not as historically accurate, but as written and published before I heard the supposed facts of its first verse contradicted. THE GERMAN-FRENCH CAMPAIGN. 1870-1871. These two pieces, written during the suspense of a grea' nation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not political bias. I. "THY BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIETH." ALL her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed; Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest? A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads, Mournful Mother, prone in dust and weeping As thou once, now these to thee-who pitieth thee O thou King, terrible in strength, and building Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach, Art thou greater than great Babylon, Take heed, ye unwise among the people; He that planted the ear shall He not hear, Nor He smite who formed the hand? "Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord: O Man, put up thy sword. 2. "TO-DAY FOR ME." SHE sitteth still who used to dance, She trembleth as the days advance Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons? "Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."Alas, France! She struggles in a deathly trance, She hears the nations calling her, "France, France, France." Thou people of the lifted lance, Forbear her tears, forbear her blood : Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, Back from France. Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain ; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France. A time there is for change and chance, A time for passing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France. A time there is for change and chance : Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up After France ? |