O, who knows the truth, And like a queen went down Pale in her royal crown? From the sea-foam chill and hoary, They went down, all the crew, The great ones and the small, Was it through stress of weather, And he will not disclose this. After a day and a year The bridal bells chime clear; After a year and a day The Bridegroom is brave and gay: THE GERMAN-FRENCH CAMPAIGN. 1870-1871. These two pieces, written during the suspense of a great nation's agory, 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; Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage : 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, A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth: Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth; God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet He doth not forget. Mournful Mother, prone in dust weeping, Who shall comfort thee for those who are not? As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure. And heat the furnace sevenfold hot: As thou once, now these to thee From sea to sea? who pitieth thee O thou King, terrible in strength, and building Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach, Take heed, ye unwise among the people; "Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord: O Man, put up thy sword. II. "TO-DAY FOR ME." HE sitteth still who used to dance, SHE She weepeth sore and more and more Let us sit with thee weeping sore, O fair France ! 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, 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: 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? ON THE WING. Ο SONNET. NCE in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. |