[Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth A carefully selected collection of poems growing out of and in reference to the late war |
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The Lost Cause.
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 | [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth |  |
424
The Lost Cause.
Lost! wherefore lost? That is not lost forever,
Which yields to numbers on the field of blood:
For truth has many fields for her endeavor—
Seas in their ebb can wait the hour of flood.
Which yields to numbers on the field of blood:
For truth has many fields for her endeavor—
Seas in their ebb can wait the hour of flood.
Worn out by contest with a myriad foemen,
If champions grow exhausted and despair,
What then—if on some cloudy day the gnomon
Points not the hour—the dial still is there.
If champions grow exhausted and despair,
What then—if on some cloudy day the gnomon
Points not the hour—the dial still is there.
The clouds will pass—the skies, not always shrouded,
Will gleam with glory, though to-day they lower,
And then the dial, never more enshrouded,
Will mark, and plainly mark, the triumph hour.
Will gleam with glory, though to-day they lower,
And then the dial, never more enshrouded,
Will mark, and plainly mark, the triumph hour.
Lost! wherefore lost? 'Tis not because in battle
Its friends were routed by o'erthronging foes,
Not 'mid the cannon's roar and musket's rattle,
Truth only deals its most effective blows.
Its friends were routed by o'erthronging foes,
Not 'mid the cannon's roar and musket's rattle,
Truth only deals its most effective blows.
No cause is lost, that, in itself, has merit,
Because its champions to brute-force succumb—
The sons, with pride, the fathers' wrongs inherit,
And they will speak—'tis only brutes are dumb.
Because its champions to brute-force succumb—
The sons, with pride, the fathers' wrongs inherit,
And they will speak—'tis only brutes are dumb.
The surest weapon is not gun or sabre,
Cannon, nor rifle, when for truth we fight:
A few fit words surpass the idiot's jabber,
Tongue, pen, and press, are potent for the right.
Cannon, nor rifle, when for truth we fight:
A few fit words surpass the idiot's jabber,
Tongue, pen, and press, are potent for the right.
425
Not always Sisyphus may fail, and glorious
The hour that witnesses his labors o'er;
Let him roll on, he yet will be victorious,
And on the summit rest to toil no more.
The hour that witnesses his labors o'er;
Let him roll on, he yet will be victorious,
And on the summit rest to toil no more.
Lost! what is lost? The lives, the gold, the labor
Of thousands, given for four long, weary years!
The story goes from neighbor unto neighbor,
From sire to son, but is not told with tears.
Of thousands, given for four long, weary years!
The story goes from neighbor unto neighbor,
From sire to son, but is not told with tears.
It is not told with shame, nor heard with terror,
How, for a principle, a people fought;
Not in the cause, there lay the evident error,
But in the mode by which the end was sought.
How, for a principle, a people fought;
Not in the cause, there lay the evident error,
But in the mode by which the end was sought.
Ballots as weapons are than bullets surer,
As will be proven ere the strife is done:
Truth, by discussion, finds her throne securer—
The council closes what the sword began.
As will be proven ere the strife is done:
Truth, by discussion, finds her throne securer—
The council closes what the sword began.
Lost! never lost! a cause when those who love it,
Laugh at misfortune, and reverse defy,
Loses no hope when falsehood sits above it,—
It may be wounded, but it cannot die.
Laugh at misfortune, and reverse defy,
Loses no hope when falsehood sits above it,—
It may be wounded, but it cannot die.
But yesterday the Austrian ruled in Venice:
To-day, he sullen fires his parting gun;
Appeal to reason, and abandon menace,
Time, firmness, patience, and the cause is won.
To-day, he sullen fires his parting gun;
Appeal to reason, and abandon menace,
Time, firmness, patience, and the cause is won.
| [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth | |