« ПредишнаНапред »
The Angels Of Bpena Vista. 335
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid."
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,
With a stifled cry of horror, straight she turned away her head;
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled:
Was that pitying face his mother's 1 did she watch beside her child %
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied!
With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmered he, and died!
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the North!"
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.
"Look forth once more, Ximena!" "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;
336 The Angels Of Buena Vista.
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;
Hide your faces, holy angels! Oh, thou Christ of God forgive!
"Sink, Oh Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;
Dying brothers, fighting demons—drop thy curtain over all!" Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.
But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food;
Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.
Not wholly lost, Oh Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!
J. G. W.
And where the natural halts, where cramped, confined,
When on a fragrant sandal tree,
The woodman's axe descends,
Beneath the weapon bends—
How hardly man this lesson learns!
To smile and bless the hand that spurns;
To see the blow, to feel the pain,
And render only love again!
One had it—but He came from Heaven,
Reviled, rejected and betrayed,
No curse He breathed, no 'plaint he made:
But when in death's dark pang He sighed,
Prayed for His murderers, and died!
Many are the minds, whose controlling energy is felt in the movements and the destiny of nations, and whose names are imperishable in the monuments of history, that have been sustained and guided in their seasons of action and endurance, in the origination of plans of benevolence and patriotism, and in the fortitude which carried them into effect, by the inspiration of woman's genius, and the generous purity of her affections.'
as 29 337
fcenal at Ipringfielb.
Certainly if all who knew, that to be men, stands not in the shape of bodies, but in the power of reason, would listen awhile to Christ's wholesome and peaceable decrees, and not, puffed up with ignorance and conceit rather believe their own opinions than his admonitions; the whole world long ago (turning the use of iron into milder works,) should have lived in most quiet tranquillity, and have met together in a firm and indissoluble league of most safe concord. Arnobious
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing,
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary
"What loud lament and dismal Miserere
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan—
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm, and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
And loud, amid the universal clamour,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drum made of serpent's skin.
The Arsenal At Springfield.
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout. that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage,
The wail of famine in beleagured towns!
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
Is it, Oh man, with such discordant noises,
Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices,
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation that should lift again Its hand against its brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
And like a bell, with solemn sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say " 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,