The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘I know that you will always do your duty to your Sovereign and country, wherever that duty may lead you, and I pray God to protect you and bring you back safely home.’—The Queen to her Soldiers.

‘Stand, Watchman, on the Castle height,
And southward gaze for me,
Beyond the day, across the night,
And say—What dost thou see?’
‘I see the clouds of battle lower,
Our hosts flock forth to slay! . . .’
The Widow, in her Palace bower,
Stood listening, old and gray.

‘Oh, Watchman, is it well with those
Who 'neath my banners stand,
Whose swords are drawn to smite my foes
In yonder far-off Land?’
‘Lady, their camps are red with blood,
Their kinsmen's and their own . . .’
As pale as Death the Widow stood,
Sad-hearted and alone.

‘Oh, Watchman, look again and hark,
What dost thou hear and see?’
‘I hear a sobbing in the dark
Of widow'd souls like thee,—

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I hear a sound that drowns in tears
The War-cry far away!’
That sound of sorrow in her ears,
The Widow knelt to pray.

‘Oh, Watchman, gaze across the night
And watch my hosts again,
For surely troops of Angels bright
Are hovering round the slain?’
‘Angels of Death in raiment red
Pass, but in wrath divine!’
The Widow moaned, ‘God help the Dead,
And loving hearts like mine!’

‘Oh, Watchman, seek the night afar
For Him, our God and Lord,—
Among those thunder-clouds of War
Doth He not wield the sword?’
‘Lady, indeed I see Him there,
But bow'd in woe like thee!’
The Widow, moaning in despair,
Pray'd still on bended knee.

‘Oh, look again! doth He not stay
To crown my glorious Dead?’
‘Lady, He rather turns away
To bless the widow's bread,
To dry the weeping children's eyes
Throughout the stricken Lands!’
Her gaze uplifted to the skies,
The Widow wrung her hands.

‘Oh, Watchman, doth He speak no word,
To be our strength and guide?’
‘Nay!—for the hand that draws the Sword
Must cast the Sword aside!
Thy Master is the Prince of Peace,
But holds no soul in thrall,—
'Tis theirs to bid the tempest cease
Who prayed that it should fall!’

‘Oh, Watchman, mark my sons once more!
Do they not pause and kneel?’
‘Lady, thy legions trample o'er
The necks beneath their heel;
They cry for Him, thy Lord, to bless
Their bloody loss and gain!’
She sobbed, ‘Christ, help the fatherless!’
And wrung her hands again.

‘Oh look and see, more near,’
The weeping Widow said,
‘How fare the men who loosen'd here
Those storms of wrath and dread,
Who swore to me that Christ our Lord
Would bless the Dream and Deed?’
‘Lady, around the laden board
They feast, while thousands bleed!’

‘My curse,’ she cried, ‘for evermore
On those false Chiefs and vain
Who drew by night across my door
The crimson cross of Cain!’
‘Lady, from land to land there runs
The sob of broken hearts,
While the brave life-blood of thy sons
Is priced in yonder marts!’

The royal Widow rose her height.
‘My path is dark,’ she said,
‘I prayed the Lord to lend me Light,
He sends me Death instead!’
‘Lady, when men forsake their Lord
His Light is ne'er their guide;
Only the hand that draws the sword
Can cast the sword aside.’