“…and Give Thee Peace”

THE SUMMER glories fade in autumn mists,

The sombre earth is wrapped in clouds of gloom;

Faint through the storm-filled air a sound is borne,

A sound of dread—a sound of awful doom.

It is the tread of armed marching hosts,

The muffled roar of death-dispensing fire,

The cry of anguish, and the piteous groan

Of brave men dying in the battle mire.

O God! that creatures fashioned in Thy shape

Should in Thy sight, their brother-creatures slay!

Oh, riddle dire! whose answer we must wait

Beyond the narrow limit of the day!

Let forth the snow-plumed bird! Speed Thou her flight

Across this world of storm, and stress, and strife,

That where she spreads her magic pinions’ shade,

Joy may awake to sweet and happy life!