 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes |  |
MORALIZINGS.
Hark to the triumph for a victory won,
Shaking the solid earth whereon we stand!
What noble action hath the Nation done,
That thus rejoicing echoes through the land?
Hath she beheld life's inequality—
How, still, her stronger sons the weak oppress,
And, in the spirit of philanthropy,
Made the deep sum of human anguish less?
Or hath she risen up, at last, to free
The hopeless slave from his captivity?
Shaking the solid earth whereon we stand!
What noble action hath the Nation done,
That thus rejoicing echoes through the land?
Hath she beheld life's inequality—
How, still, her stronger sons the weak oppress,
And, in the spirit of philanthropy,
Made the deep sum of human anguish less?
Or hath she risen up, at last, to free
The hopeless slave from his captivity?
No, not for these the shout is heard to-night
Waking its echoes in each vale and glen,
Not that the precepts of the Lord of Light
Have found a dwelling in the hearts of men;
'T is that a battle hath been fought and won,
That the deep cannon's note is heard afar,
Telling us of the bloody conflict done,
That Victory hovers o'er our ranks in war,
And that her soldiery their triumph sing
In the broad shadow of her starry wing.
Waking its echoes in each vale and glen,
Not that the precepts of the Lord of Light
Have found a dwelling in the hearts of men;
'T is that a battle hath been fought and won,
That the deep cannon's note is heard afar,
Telling us of the bloody conflict done,
That Victory hovers o'er our ranks in war,
And that her soldiery their triumph sing
In the broad shadow of her starry wing.
And war is here! impatient for the fight,
Our Nation in her majesty arose,
Even as the restless lion in his might
Up from the swelling of the Jordan goes,
And, with a trampling noise that shook each hill,
On to the conflict madly hath she rushed,
Vowing to falter not, nor yield, until
The life from out a Nation's heart is crushed;
Until her hapless sons are made to feel
The bloody vengeance of her iron heel!
Our Nation in her majesty arose,
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Up from the swelling of the Jordan goes,
And, with a trampling noise that shook each hill,
On to the conflict madly hath she rushed,
Vowing to falter not, nor yield, until
The life from out a Nation's heart is crushed;
Until her hapless sons are made to feel
The bloody vengeance of her iron heel!
And what will be our gain, though we return
Proudly victorious from each battle plain?
A weakened nation will be left to mourn
Her bravest heroes in the conflict slain;
Her treasury drained; our broad and goodly-land
Filled with the orphan and the widowed wife;
A soldiery corrupted to disband,
Unfit for useful toil or virtuous life;
And a long train of evils yet to be
Darkly entailed upon posterity!
Proudly victorious from each battle plain?
A weakened nation will be left to mourn
Her bravest heroes in the conflict slain;
Her treasury drained; our broad and goodly-land
Filled with the orphan and the widowed wife;
A soldiery corrupted to disband,
Unfit for useful toil or virtuous life;
And a long train of evils yet to be
Darkly entailed upon posterity!
And this is glory! This is what hath been
To ages back the proudest theme of song,
And, dazzled by its glare, man has not seen
Beneath its pageantry the deadly wrong.
Deeming it fame to tread where heroes trod,
In his career he has not paused, or known
That all are children of the self-same God,
And that our brother's interest is our own;
For man that hardest lesson has to learn,
Still to forgive, and good for ill return.
To ages back the proudest theme of song,
And, dazzled by its glare, man has not seen
Beneath its pageantry the deadly wrong.
Deeming it fame to tread where heroes trod,
In his career he has not paused, or known
That all are children of the self-same God,
And that our brother's interest is our own;
For man that hardest lesson has to learn,
Still to forgive, and good for ill return.
But oh! for all will come that solemn hour
When memory calls to mind each deed of sin,
And the world's hollow praise can have no power
To still the voice of conscious guilt within.
And grant, O Lord of Love, that it may be
My lot, when on the brink of death I press,
To think of some slight act of charity,
Some pang of human wretchedness made less,
So, that in numbering o'er life's deeds again,
I then may deem I have not lived in vain!
When memory calls to mind each deed of sin,
And the world's hollow praise can have no power
To still the voice of conscious guilt within.
And grant, O Lord of Love, that it may be
My lot, when on the brink of death I press,
To think of some slight act of charity,
Some pang of human wretchedness made less,
So, that in numbering o'er life's deeds again,
I then may deem I have not lived in vain!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary with introduction and notes | |