OLOR ISCANUS queries: "Why should we Vex at the land's ridiculous miserie?"
So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawn Of England's civil strife, did careless Vaughan Bemock his times. O friends of many years! Though faith and trust are stronger than our fears, And the signs promise peace with liberty, Not thus we trifle with our country's tears And sweat of agony. The future's gain
Is certain as God's truth; but, meanwhile, pain Is bitter and tears are salt: our voices take A sober tone; our very household songs Are heavy with a nation's griefs and wrongs; And innocent mirth is chastened for the sake Of the brave hearts that nevermore shall beat, The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet!
WE see not, know not; all our way ls night, with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift,
The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, But who are we to make complaint, Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease? Thy will be done!
We take with solemn thankfulness Our burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even we May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,
Whose will be done!
Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace Thy picture's wise design, And thank Thee that our age supplies Its dark relief of sacrifice.
Thy will be done!
And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done!
If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by Thee, our present pain, Be Liberty's eternal gain,
Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys, The anthem of the destinies ! The minor of Thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done!
WE wait beneath the furnace-blast The pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast And mould anew the nation. Hot burns the fire Where wrongs expire; Nor spares the hand That from the land Uproots the ancient evil.
The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared Its bloody rain is dropping;
The poison plant the fathers spared All else is overtopping.
East, West, South, North, It curses the earth;
All justice dies,
And fraud and lies
Live only in its shadow.
What gives the wheat-field blades of
What points the rebel cannon? What sets the roaring rabble's heel On the old star-spangled pennon ? What breaks the oath
Of the men o' the South? What whets the knife For the Union's life? - Hark to the answer: Slavery!
Then waste no blows on lesser foes In strife unworthy freemen.
For who that leans on His right arm Was ever yet forsaken? What righteous cause can suffer harm If He its part has taken? Though wild and loud And dark the cloud, Behind its folds His hand upholds
The calm sky of to-morrow!
Above the maddening cry for blood, Above the wild war-drumming,
Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good
The evil overcoming. Give prayer and purse To stay the Curse Whose wrong we share, Whose shame we bear,
Whose end shall gladden Heaven!
In vain the bells of war shall ring Of triumphs and revenges, While still is spared the evil thing That severs and estranges. But blest the ear That yet shall hear The jubilant bell That rings the knell Of Slavery forever!
Then let the selfish lip be dumb,
And hushed the breath of sighing; Before the joy of peace must come The pains of purifying.
« PreviousContinue » |