A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, And summon from the shadowy Past The Past and Present here unite Here runs the highway to the town ; Through which I walked to church with thee, The shadow of the linden-trees Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day. I saw the branches of the trees Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn. Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream. And ever and anon, the wind, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe This memory brightens o'er the past, Behind some cloud that near us hangs, THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 241 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, Is it, () man, with such discordant noises, Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. |