 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
205
OUR LAND BEYOND THE WAR.
When our good God shall give us rest from fighting,
And send our soldiers singing from the field,
Where the great wrong has found its bloody righting
From men that life, but never right would yield;
And send our soldiers singing from the field,
Where the great wrong has found its bloody righting
From men that life, but never right would yield;
There, in long peace, when sunny plenty hovers,
With sounds of mirth and work, o'er all the land,
There homelike households are, and sly, true-lovers,
And merry children, gambol, hand in hand;
With sounds of mirth and work, o'er all the land,
There homelike households are, and sly, true-lovers,
And merry children, gambol, hand in hand;
Brailing their sails, the pennoned ships, deep-freighted,
Come sliding through the ranks of anchored hulls;
In stony streets, the roar of trade belated,
Touches almost the morrow ere its lulls;
Come sliding through the ranks of anchored hulls;
In stony streets, the roar of trade belated,
Touches almost the morrow ere its lulls;
206
Over the world to thee, shall lowly dwellers,
Look, lovingly, Free Land, as fondly we;
And at dim hearths, and in dark ways, the tellers
Of thy proud fame and thy great hope shall be.
Look, lovingly, Free Land, as fondly we;
And at dim hearths, and in dark ways, the tellers
Of thy proud fame and thy great hope shall be.
1863.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |