 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
226
WAR.
This mighty stream of life that glides
Through earth's unnumbered human forms,
Like the great ocean's heaving tides,
Is restless, dark and wild, with storms.
Through earth's unnumbered human forms,
Like the great ocean's heaving tides,
Is restless, dark and wild, with storms.
Look backward o'er its dreary track,
Till lost in distance, dim and gray,
And mark the ruin and the wrack,
That cumber all the endless way.
Till lost in distance, dim and gray,
And mark the ruin and the wrack,
That cumber all the endless way.
How many empires, wide and vast,
That once in power and glory stood,
Have human passions downward cast,
And whelmed beneath a sea of blood?
That once in power and glory stood,
Have human passions downward cast,
And whelmed beneath a sea of blood?
What hosts has persecution's rage
Doomed to a bitter death of shame;
In every land and every age,
Dear Lord, what myriads in thy name?
Doomed to a bitter death of shame;
In every land and every age,
Dear Lord, what myriads in thy name?
227
And still the nations, near and far,
Shape at the forge, with ceaseless toil,
The horrid implements of war.
And drench with human blood the soil.
Shape at the forge, with ceaseless toil,
The horrid implements of war.
And drench with human blood the soil.
If more artistic than of yore,
More dread is war's wild rush than then,
And deeper still the flood of gore,
That oft' o'erflows the paths of men.
More dread is war's wild rush than then,
And deeper still the flood of gore,
That oft' o'erflows the paths of men.
O, when shall that calm, happy time,
By ancient seers long since foretold,
In every land and every clime,
Its white and holy wings unfold?
By ancient seers long since foretold,
In every land and every clime,
Its white and holy wings unfold?
When nations shall learn war no more;
No more its enginery design;
But sit in peace the wide world o'er,
Beneath the fig tree and the vine.
No more its enginery design;
But sit in peace the wide world o'er,
Beneath the fig tree and the vine.
Or, is it but an idle dream,
In which our thoughts some solace find;
A passing meteor's fitful gleam,
To cheer the hope, but cheat the mind.
In which our thoughts some solace find;
A passing meteor's fitful gleam,
To cheer the hope, but cheat the mind.
O, no, there yet shall rise a day,
Borne on the fleeting wings of time,
When over all, with gentle sway,
The Prince of Peace shall rule sublime.
Borne on the fleeting wings of time,
When over all, with gentle sway,
The Prince of Peace shall rule sublime.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |