 | Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest |  |
57
REMONSTRANCE.
“One murder makes a villain, millions a hero; and number sanctifies
the crime.”—Young.
With mournful eyes, and folded hands,
And listening ear, Britannia stands—
No counsel gives, makes no demands—
'Twere vain, for transatlantic lands
Scorn Europe's intervention.
She gazes o'er the western deep—
She can but pray, she can but weep;
There War's red eye doth never sleep—
His bloodiest revels Death doth keep—
Men shrink their deeds to mention.
And listening ear, Britannia stands—
No counsel gives, makes no demands—
'Twere vain, for transatlantic lands
Scorn Europe's intervention.
She gazes o'er the western deep—
She can but pray, she can but weep;
There War's red eye doth never sleep—
His bloodiest revels Death doth keep—
Men shrink their deeds to mention.
Oh glorious land! to thee are given
The richest gifts of bounteous heaven;
But thou, by lust of empire driven,
Hast blindly, madly, vainly striven,
'Gainst Southern secession.
You may not, will not, cannot gain
Your object; not as one, but twain,
The North and South must now remain—
Let weeping Peace not sue in vain
For entrance and possession.
The richest gifts of bounteous heaven;
But thou, by lust of empire driven,
Hast blindly, madly, vainly striven,
'Gainst Southern secession.
You may not, will not, cannot gain
Your object; not as one, but twain,
The North and South must now remain—
Let weeping Peace not sue in vain
For entrance and possession.
58
Ye live, and fight, and fall beneath
A lurid cloud of blood and death;
The atmosphere that feeds your breath
Smells rank; your victories claim a wreath
Of cypress, not of laurel.
Awake! no more of conquest dream;
The State boat's on Niagara's stream—
She nears the rapids—it would seem
That she must perish while you dream
Of triumph in the quarrel.
A lurid cloud of blood and death;
The atmosphere that feeds your breath
Smells rank; your victories claim a wreath
Of cypress, not of laurel.
Awake! no more of conquest dream;
The State boat's on Niagara's stream—
She nears the rapids—it would seem
That she must perish while you dream
Of triumph in the quarrel.
Let mercy, prudence, common sense,
Ply oar and helm, and shape from thence
Her course—their presence will dispense
A healthy, healing influence,
Your deadly wounds to close.
What profit should ye gain a world
And lose a soul? Your flag unfurled
Ten thousand souls to darkness hurled,
And yet you have not gained a world,
But thousand thousand woes.
Ply oar and helm, and shape from thence
Her course—their presence will dispense
A healthy, healing influence,
Your deadly wounds to close.
What profit should ye gain a world
And lose a soul? Your flag unfurled
Ten thousand souls to darkness hurled,
And yet you have not gained a world,
But thousand thousand woes.
| Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest | |