University of Virginia Library

God of Battles! give us peace!
Not the peace of beaten slaves;
Not the truce that Mammon craves,
Wavering, frail and insecure,
Such as despots bid endure—
Smouldering lull that gives them breath
For redoubling flames of death;
Fragile thing with terror rife;
Trembling nurse of growing strife:
Give the peace that men bestow
Who, with ne'er a second blow,
Kill the cause of war—then cease.
God of Battles! give us peace!

God of Battles! give us peace.
Peace, O Lord! to us though dear,
Peace may prove a thing to fear.
There is peace far worse than strife:
Peace that rots a people's life;
When, alike in darkness thrust,
Sword and heart together rust,
And the light of honour dies
In a scabbard made of lies.
Peace may kill by slow decay
Those, no sword of Hun could slay,
Leaving of the greatness gone
But a fleshless skeleton.
Sunk in lust and shameless ease,
War may bring to such as these
Fame's aspiring, glory's goal,
Resurrection for the soul.
God of Battles! give us peace;
Not a peace that mocks the land,
Binding wounds with poisoned hand.
There is peace that more hath slain
Than e'er fell in red campaign,
Stricken still and silent down,
Through the country and the town.
Soldiers true, they battled well;
Long they fought, sublime they fell.
No one pauses by their grave;
No one writes: “Here lie the brave.
“Hunger slew them, cold and tears,
“Through their long campaign of years.
“Soldiers march in honour's name;
“Hear in music future fame;
“Win from banded brothers, might,
“Sink at last in glory's light;
“And, when death has laid them low,
“Gain a tribute from the foe:
“Braver those, who slumber here—
“Theirs nor friend nor fame to cheer;
“Theirs, amid life's growing shade,
“But the song their own hearts made.
“Theirs no tribute o'er the grave:
“Still they fought!—Here lie the brave.”

God of Battles! give us peace.
Yet we shrink not from the strife,
Long as honour claims a life.
Well we know that battle brings
Many sorrows on its wings:
Want and waste, and pressure sore;
But we'll bear them all, and more;
Well we know that war demands
Many offerings at our hands:
Bread to fail, and blood to flow:
Freely, gladly, we'll bestow,
Bear our burden brave and mute,
So our burden bears its fruit,
And no treacherous arts undo
Valour's deeds of honour true.
So that when, bereft and lorn,
Trembling we exult and mourn,
Counting all we lost and won,
When the great brave battle's done,
By the closed grave we can stand,
Million mourners hand in hand,
Breathing o'er our dear ones slain:
“God be praised! 'twas not in vain.”

God of Battles! give us peace;
And oh! grant that, while we fight,
We may strike for truth and right.
Not for Islam's wreck alone;
Not to prop the Austrian's throne;
Not, as dotard folly doth,
Smite the Hun to save the Goth.
Not, oh! mockery's crowning work!
Spurn the Pole, yet help the Turk!
God of Battles! give us peace,
Rich with honour's proud increase:
Peace that frees the fettered brave;
Peace that scorns to make a slave;
Peace that spurns a tyrant's hand;
Peace that lifts each fallen land;
Peace of peoples, not of kings;
Peace that conquering freedom brings;
Peace that bids oppression cease:
God of Battles! give us peace.