 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
VII.
The tinkle of bells on the blended hills,
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
And peaceful nature resumed her sway.
But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
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But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
Death has been in at the low church door,
For his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
The door is wide, the sill unpressedFor his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
By saint, or Sadducee, or priest—
By friend or foe, or host or guest.
The black bats cling about the wall,
And from the cross that leans afar
The gaunt, ungainly vultures call
Like wolves that prowl and howl in war.
The spiders' web, and dust within
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And all the holy things therein
Save but the cross, and Christ divine;
There spiders weave a circle lace
For ever round the holy face.
The peons pass that way no more
Except in bands, quick, stepping light,
For white bones rattle in the aisle
And hot blood smokes along the floor.
While all the night a priest in white
That watches in the open door,
Will cross him once, and twice, and thrice,
And wailing call the name of Christ?
Then cross again; and all the while
The white bones rattle in the aisle.
While ever at the noon of day
There rises from the gory floor
A loose capote and cloud of hair,
All darker than a thunder-storm,
Enveloping a sullen form
That looks a weary, sad despair.
One worships Christ by night, and one
By day is worshipping the sun.
| Joaquin, et al. | |