 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
147
NIGHT WANES.
Night wanes: the nation's travail, throe by throe,
Brings on the hour that shall absolve her sin;
And the great, solemn bells, now swinging slow,
With tales of murder in their iron din,
Shall ring the years of peace and freedom in.
Brings on the hour that shall absolve her sin;
And the great, solemn bells, now swinging slow,
With tales of murder in their iron din,
Shall ring the years of peace and freedom in.
Be patient, O my heart; look through the gloom
Of the sad present, look through all the past,
And learn how, out of sin and death and doom,
And mournful tragedies, august and vast,
The world's great victories are achieved at last.
Of the sad present, look through all the past,
And learn how, out of sin and death and doom,
And mournful tragedies, august and vast,
The world's great victories are achieved at last.
148
Look far away; count all the triumphs bought
By martyred saints, found worthy to atone
For others' sin, see life from death outwrought,
And know each blast from War's wild bugle blown
Shall melt in music round the “Great White Throne.”
By martyred saints, found worthy to atone
For others' sin, see life from death outwrought,
And know each blast from War's wild bugle blown
Shall melt in music round the “Great White Throne.”
1861.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |