 | The various writings of Cornelius Mathews |  |
VIII.
THE SOLDIER.
With grounded arms, and silent as the mountains,
Pause for thy quarrel at the marbled sea:
And, when comes the ship o'er the curled wave bounding,
Remember that a brother in a foe may be.
Thy battles are not wars but self-defences,
Girding this Universal Home about—
Least lion-wrong and subtle-fanged pretences
Pierce to its heart and let the life-hope out.
Pause for thy quarrel at the marbled sea:
And, when comes the ship o'er the curled wave bounding,
Remember that a brother in a foe may be.
Thy battles are not wars but self-defences,
Girding this Universal Home about—
Least lion-wrong and subtle-fanged pretences
Pierce to its heart and let the life-hope out.
Though sleeps the war-blade in the amorous sheath,
And the dumb cannon stretches at his leisure—
When strikes the shore a hostile foot—out-breathe
Ye grim, loud guns—ye fierce swords work your pleasure!
And sternly, in your stubborn socket set,
For life or death—your hilt upon the steadfast land,
Your glance upon the foe, thou sure-set bayonet,
Firm 'gainst a world's shock in your fastness stand!
And the dumb cannon stretches at his leisure—
When strikes the shore a hostile foot—out-breathe
Ye grim, loud guns—ye fierce swords work your pleasure!
And sternly, in your stubborn socket set,
For life or death—your hilt upon the steadfast land,
Your glance upon the foe, thou sure-set bayonet,
Firm 'gainst a world's shock in your fastness stand!
This, this, remember still, thou son of war—
The child of peace within his doorway seated
Thine equal is—though beats the luring drum afar,
Or flies the meteor column, battle-heated.
Lo, in the calmness of that silent man,
And in the peaceful sky-arch o'er him bending,
A pure repose—a more triumphal span
Than sees the death-field 'mid its storms ascending.
The child of peace within his doorway seated
Thine equal is—though beats the luring drum afar,
Or flies the meteor column, battle-heated.
Lo, in the calmness of that silent man,
And in the peaceful sky-arch o'er him bending,
A pure repose—a more triumphal span
Than sees the death-field 'mid its storms ascending.
| The various writings of Cornelius Mathews | |