 | Women must weep |  |
THE HOLY WAR.
Not a trump has spoken still,
Not a banner still is spread,
Not a sword unsheath'd for good or ill,
Not a sound of armèd tread;
Not a watch-fire on the beaconing hill,
To proclaim the battle's iron will,
Which the toilers scared have read,
As they wind the weary thread;
Not a moment's pause to labour's skill,
With the broken staff of bread;
Not a drop of blood may the warfare spill,
Though it buries heaps of dead.
Not a banner still is spread,
Not a sword unsheath'd for good or ill,
Not a sound of armèd tread;
Not a watch-fire on the beaconing hill,
To proclaim the battle's iron will,
Which the toilers scared have read,
As they wind the weary thread;
Not a moment's pause to labour's skill,
With the broken staff of bread;
Not a drop of blood may the warfare spill,
Though it buries heaps of dead.
Not the curses, grim and deep,
Not the hate of hostile bands,
But the blessing of the eyes that weep,
And the grip of brother-hands;
Not the wolf descending on the sheep,
And the tears that pillows troubled steep,
And the awful fire that brands—
But the love that patient stands;
Not the threats that guardians wakeful keep,
On the field and fencèd strands,
But the smiles that through their sadness peep,
Like the sun on new-born lands.
Not the hate of hostile bands,
But the blessing of the eyes that weep,
And the grip of brother-hands;
Not the wolf descending on the sheep,
And the tears that pillows troubled steep,
And the awful fire that brands—
But the love that patient stands;
Not the threats that guardians wakeful keep,
On the field and fencèd strands,
But the smiles that through their sadness peep,
Like the sun on new-born lands.
Not the hid or open blow,
As when stubborn foemen strive—
But the kiss of pardon, which would throw
A veil on the prison gyve;
Not the clouds that let no rosebud grow,
With the storms that on the weakest blow,
And the helmless wreckage drive,
While they make the wicked thrive,
But the loyal hearts that leap and glow,
And in seas of darkness dive;
That the jewel drown'd they yet may show
Is a soul with God alive.
As when stubborn foemen strive—
But the kiss of pardon, which would throw
A veil on the prison gyve;
6
With the storms that on the weakest blow,
And the helmless wreckage drive,
While they make the wicked thrive,
But the loyal hearts that leap and glow,
And in seas of darkness dive;
That the jewel drown'd they yet may show
Is a soul with God alive.
Not a taking of the dear,
But a giving to the spent,
In the fray that draws the orphan near,
And the faces dumbly bent;
Not a hoisting of the flag of fear,
And a shaking of the shadowy spear,
But the gospel's holy tent,
With many a glorious rent;
And the hallow'd flame that shines most clear,
Within alleys pale and pent,
When all heaven comes down to abysses drear,
To embrace one penitent.
But a giving to the spent,
In the fray that draws the orphan near,
And the faces dumbly bent;
Not a hoisting of the flag of fear,
And a shaking of the shadowy spear,
But the gospel's holy tent,
With many a glorious rent;
And the hallow'd flame that shines most clear,
Within alleys pale and pent,
When all heaven comes down to abysses drear,
To embrace one penitent.
| Women must weep | |