Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||
74
LXXIV. WAR NOTES IN RYDAL VALE.
In gloomy phalanx, stubborn, back to back,Beat from the field, their vantage ground they crowd—
These gallant Firs, as if with sense endowed
Of sudden mischief and of fierce attack.
Close at their side I hear the trigger's crack,
From rifle's lip leaps out the fiery cloud,
And quick the sullen targets answer proud
To marksman's aim and ball's unerring track.
Bitter it is that this dear vale of peace
By forced suggestion so should echo war,—
That swift association cannot cease
To bring the noise of murder from afar!
When will the Firs their social message wave,
And those white Targets mark the Rifle's grave?
Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||