 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
The tinkle of bells on the blended hills,
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
And peaceful nature resumed her sway.
But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
44
But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
Death has been in at the low church door,
For his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
For his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
| Joaquin, et al. | |