 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
238
THE PRESS AND THE CANNON.
The Cannon and Press! how they ban, how they bless
This beautiful planet of ours;
The first by the length of its terrible strength,
The other by holier powers.
More and more they are foes as the new spirit grows—
Will their struggles bring joy to the free?
For the wrongful and right—for the darkness and light—
Oh, which shall the conqueror be?
This beautiful planet of ours;
The first by the length of its terrible strength,
The other by holier powers.
More and more they are foes as the new spirit grows—
Will their struggles bring joy to the free?
For the wrongful and right—for the darkness and light—
Oh, which shall the conqueror be?
With a war-waking note from its sulphurous throat
The Cannon insulteth the day,
And flingeth about, with a flash and a shout,
The death-bolts that deepen the fray:
“Give me slaughter,” it cries, as it booms to the skies,
And men turn to fiends at the sound;
Till the sun droppeth dun, till the battle is won,
And carnage encumbers the ground.
The Cannon insulteth the day,
And flingeth about, with a flash and a shout,
The death-bolts that deepen the fray:
“Give me slaughter,” it cries, as it booms to the skies,
And men turn to fiends at the sound;
Till the sun droppeth dun, till the battle is won,
And carnage encumbers the ground.
Then the reveller reels, then the plunderer steals
Like a snake, through the horrible gloom;
Then the maid is defiled, then the widow is wild,
As she fathoms the depths of her doom;
Fierce fires glare aloof, till the night's starry roof
Seems to blush at the doings of wrong;
Sounds of terror and woe through the dark come and go,
With fury, and laughter, and song!
Like a snake, through the horrible gloom;
Then the maid is defiled, then the widow is wild,
As she fathoms the depths of her doom;
Fierce fires glare aloof, till the night's starry roof
Seems to blush at the doings of wrong;
Sounds of terror and woe through the dark come and go,
With fury, and laughter, and song!
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When the morrow's fair face looketh down on the place,
All trodden and sodden with strife,
The grass and the grain are empurpled with rain
From the fountains of desperate life;
The stream runneth red, and the green leaves are shed,
That o'ershadowed its waters so clear—
For the bale-fire hath been on the desolate scene,
And hath cursed it for many a year!
All trodden and sodden with strife,
The grass and the grain are empurpled with rain
From the fountains of desperate life;
The stream runneth red, and the green leaves are shed,
That o'ershadowed its waters so clear—
For the bale-fire hath been on the desolate scene,
And hath cursed it for many a year!
Reeking ruins abound on the war-withered ground,
In whose ashes sit shapes of despair,
And the voices of wail float afar on the gale,
Till the brute is appalled in his lair:
On the broad battle-floor, in their cerements of gore,
Lie thousands whose conflicts are past,
To furnish a feast for the bird and the beast—
To fester and bleach in the blast.
In whose ashes sit shapes of despair,
And the voices of wail float afar on the gale,
Till the brute is appalled in his lair:
On the broad battle-floor, in their cerements of gore,
Lie thousands whose conflicts are past,
To furnish a feast for the bird and the beast—
To fester and bleach in the blast.
But the tears of the sad, and the cries of the mad,
And the blood that polluteth the sod,
And the prayers of the crowd—solemn, earnest, and loud—
Together go up unto God!
Nor in vain do they rise—for the good and the wise,
And the gifted of spirit and speech,
Are waking the lands to more holy commands,
For peace is the lesson they teach.
And the blood that polluteth the sod,
And the prayers of the crowd—solemn, earnest, and loud—
Together go up unto God!
Nor in vain do they rise—for the good and the wise,
And the gifted of spirit and speech,
Are waking the lands to more holy commands,
For peace is the lesson they teach.
Behold the proud Press! how it labours to bless,
By the numberless tones of its voice!
To lofty and low its grand harmonies flow,
And the multitudes hear and rejoice;
Scarce an alley of gloom, scarce an artizan's room,
Scarce a heart in the mill or the mine,
Scarce a soul that is dark, but receiveth a spark
Of its spirit, so vast and divine!
By the numberless tones of its voice!
To lofty and low its grand harmonies flow,
And the multitudes hear and rejoice;
Scarce an alley of gloom, scarce an artizan's room,
Scarce a heart in the mill or the mine,
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Of its spirit, so vast and divine!
The Cannon lays waste, but the Press is in haste
To enlighten, uplift, and renew;
And the life of its lore—can we languish for more?—
Is the beautiful, peaceful, and true.
Man bringeth his thought, in calm solitude wrought,
To be multiplied, scattered, and sown;
And the seed that to-day droppeth down by the way,
Is to-morrow fair, fruitful, and grown.
To enlighten, uplift, and renew;
And the life of its lore—can we languish for more?—
Is the beautiful, peaceful, and true.
Man bringeth his thought, in calm solitude wrought,
To be multiplied, scattered, and sown;
And the seed that to-day droppeth down by the way,
Is to-morrow fair, fruitful, and grown.
Joy, joy to the world! Press and People have hurled
Their slings 'gainst the errors of old;
One by one, as they fall, the poor children of thrall
Grow dignified, gladsome, and bold.
The Cannon and Sword—cruel, cursed, and abhorred—
Cannot stay the proud march of the free;
They may ban and beguile the rude nations awhile,
But the Press will the conqueror be!
Their slings 'gainst the errors of old;
One by one, as they fall, the poor children of thrall
Grow dignified, gladsome, and bold.
The Cannon and Sword—cruel, cursed, and abhorred—
Cannot stay the proud march of the free;
They may ban and beguile the rude nations awhile,
But the Press will the conqueror be!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |