Peace and war An Ode. By William Allingham. Reprinted, by permission, from the "Daily News." |
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 | Peace and war |  |
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PEACE AND WAR.
An Ode.
I.
The year's great tide again is flowing,Brightening, rising, wave on wave;
Moving preludes strange and grave
In many a chasm and secret cave;
Like stormy rumours growing.
Soon, advanced for joy or woe,
With placid heaving or tempestuous roll,
Its plenitude shall touch the goal,
And cease to flow:
Then to a pause the ebb succeed,
And wave on wave, with falling chime,
Forsake its drift of wealth or weed
Along the dusking shore and in the crypts of Time.
II.
The augur in his temple consThe reeking sacrificial blood,
When hark! the loud authentic God—
“Unfold to war the gates of bronze!”
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A wailful blast o'er land and sea;
Whose sound,
Gathering its borders round,
Rolls out into infinity;
And all is stiller than before.
III.
But through the stillness I can hear,
With an awe which is not fear,
The tread of multitudinous hosts,
From many regions; from the coasts
Of ice and pine, from endless plains,
Great river banks, and mountain chains,
And unknown cities, wide apart:
And—like the pulses of the heart
Heard in the solemn night—there sounds
A swelling murmur from the bounds
Of ancient fame; high Caucasus,
And deep Euphrates, and hot sand
Of hoary Nile; and, guarded thus,
Pinnacles of imperial pride,
Enthroned upon their narrow tide,
The gateway of a glorious land.
With an awe which is not fear,
The tread of multitudinous hosts,
From many regions; from the coasts
Of ice and pine, from endless plains,
Great river banks, and mountain chains,
And unknown cities, wide apart:
And—like the pulses of the heart
Heard in the solemn night—there sounds
A swelling murmur from the bounds
Of ancient fame; high Caucasus,
And deep Euphrates, and hot sand
Of hoary Nile; and, guarded thus,
Pinnacles of imperial pride,
Enthroned upon their narrow tide,
The gateway of a glorious land.
Nor hath the Sea no utterance, save
The wandering voices of her wind and wave:
Vast engineries, whereto in bulk and might
Her native monsters are as flakes of froth,
In leagued and irresistible array
Hiss through the startled waters, stored with wrath,
Or spit swift fire with slow portentous boom,
Heard from the Danube to the Georgian bay,
And echoed in far northern palace-room—
To rage in bloody thunder at the sign of doom.
The wandering voices of her wind and wave:
Vast engineries, whereto in bulk and might
Her native monsters are as flakes of froth,
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Hiss through the startled waters, stored with wrath,
Or spit swift fire with slow portentous boom,
Heard from the Danube to the Georgian bay,
And echoed in far northern palace-room—
To rage in bloody thunder at the sign of doom.
IV.
O Peace! with olive coronet,
And sceptre of the lily flower,
And white robes flowing to thy feet,
How beautiful thou art, Angelic Power!
And sceptre of the lily flower,
And white robes flowing to thy feet,
How beautiful thou art, Angelic Power!
With purple grape and yellow corn,
Nurslings of the night and morn,
By scatter'd cot and rural village
Thou dost crown the toils of tillage,
And with herds and flocks no less
A thousand various pastures bless;
Bid the cheerful smoke ascend
From many hearths, like incense free
On a heavenly pilgrimage;
Smile on the children's noisy glee,
Or hush beside their mother's knee;
And with a sunset calm befriend
The stooping brow of Age.
Thou lovest, too, the sacred bound,
Its echoing aisle, its solemn ground,
Where many, worshippers of old,
Are gather'd in the narrow fold;
Where many little children rest,
A daisied quilt on each small breast,
And birds to sing beside their beds,
And leaves to curtain round their heads,
And tears that fall upon the sod,
And hopes that soar to Heaven and God.
Nurslings of the night and morn,
By scatter'd cot and rural village
Thou dost crown the toils of tillage,
And with herds and flocks no less
A thousand various pastures bless;
Bid the cheerful smoke ascend
From many hearths, like incense free
On a heavenly pilgrimage;
Smile on the children's noisy glee,
Or hush beside their mother's knee;
And with a sunset calm befriend
The stooping brow of Age.
Thou lovest, too, the sacred bound,
Its echoing aisle, its solemn ground,
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Are gather'd in the narrow fold;
Where many little children rest,
A daisied quilt on each small breast,
And birds to sing beside their beds,
And leaves to curtain round their heads,
And tears that fall upon the sod,
And hopes that soar to Heaven and God.
Nor doth the swiftly-changing, busy scene
Delight thee less, O joyful Queen!
Where men in myriads mix and meet
In wealthy mart and rattling street,
At banquet or at council board;
And look to thee for their reward.
Distant shores, ship-interwoven,
Marsh and mountain railroad-cloven,
Human words on viewless wings
Outstripping sunbeams; greater things
Growing in the general mind,
Of knowledge to be strengthen'd, art refined;
While Learning, zealous in her ancient seats,
With kindly hand her infant brother greets;
And, more than all, Religion purified
Burns on the altar avarice and pride,
(Soon may that crowning bliss betide!)—
Lo! prosperous cities, cultivated soil,
And harbours clad with sails from every sea,
And wealthier treasures, won with nobler toil,
Mild ministering Peace, we owe them all to thee!
Delight thee less, O joyful Queen!
Where men in myriads mix and meet
In wealthy mart and rattling street,
At banquet or at council board;
And look to thee for their reward.
Distant shores, ship-interwoven,
Marsh and mountain railroad-cloven,
Human words on viewless wings
Outstripping sunbeams; greater things
Growing in the general mind,
Of knowledge to be strengthen'd, art refined;
While Learning, zealous in her ancient seats,
With kindly hand her infant brother greets;
And, more than all, Religion purified
Burns on the altar avarice and pride,
(Soon may that crowning bliss betide!)—
Lo! prosperous cities, cultivated soil,
And harbours clad with sails from every sea,
And wealthier treasures, won with nobler toil,
Mild ministering Peace, we owe them all to thee!
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V.
But who is this with frowning helm,And falchion in a mailéd grasp,
And tramp that jarreth many a realm,
From whom, with wild imploring clasp
Of heavenward hands, thou turnest thee to fly?
O shun his furious eye!
O name him not!—and yet his name
Stands highest in the rolls of fame.
Unswerving, terrible he comes,
With arms' clang, trumpet's scream, and din of drums.
VI.
Grim war invests the trembling town,Thundering its roofs and ramparts down.
Smoke blots the sun; the flaming shell
Brands on the night its bow of hell,
To teach despair; white famine crawls
A treacherous snake within the walls
With slow, pervading venom; blood
Empties the hearts of brave and good,
With saddest joy—their joy the more,
Whose best of life was lost before.
The while their brothers in the crowded field,
Slaying and slain, their mangled ranks restore,
Involved in smoke and hideous uproar,
And yield the whole world ere their place they yield.
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Smoke that beacons death and ruin,
Empty farm and silent village,
Shatter'd city given to pillage:
Husbands murder'd, frantic wives
Praying but to lose their lives;
Unpitied Youth; dishonour'd Age;
Men transform'd by lust and rage
To furious beasts; such government is thine,
Terrific Presence! such thy strength malign!
VII.
O lovely Peace!Would thy maternal rule might never cease!
Sweet as to convalescent eyes
The beauty of the fields and skies,
Or wild birds' warble in his ear
Who prison sounds was used to hear,
Or spring amid the sands to one
Long tortured by the pitiless sun,
Or sail to wretches on a raft,
Or words of holy truth that waft
A breath of comfort to the soul
O'erwhelm'd with sin's despairing dole,—
So welcome, when thou 'rt gone awhile,
Are thy returning voice and smile,
O lovely Peace!
And yet we would not woo them back
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Nor doze, dishonourably tame,
While pure and noble conscience went to wrack.
Rather let him, the wicked and abhorr'd,
More fiercely lift his torch and wave his dripping sword!
VIII.
Yet not the list of mighty conquerors,Pillars of Persian or of Roman pride;
Nor savage chieftains from the Caspian shores,
Spurn'd by the queenly city ere she died;
Nor they who gleam'd the turban'd crest
Of that huge wave of war
Drawn westward by the Arabian moon,
Which in its ponderous roll had drown'd
The realm of Spain, and swept around
The Pyrenean cliffs—but soon
Burst and was shatter'd on the plains of Loire:
Nor the Great Charles: nor two that bore his name
At North and South; nor that more noisy fame
Centred in Gaul,
Which shook our hearths and temples with the news
But yesterday; no hand imperial
Hath dignified the sword, or won the thoughtful Muse.
IX.
But loud, if worthy, were the strain,
For those that died for deathless rights
Upon the Marathonian plain,
And won the first of many patriot fights;
For senate, camp, and civic home,
Which, when their sun with bloody disk
Announced the extremest hour of risk,
Never despair'd of Rome;
For names exulting echo speaks
To Alpine vallies, and are hurl'd
Reverberating round the world,—
So dear to men must ever be
Heroic love of liberty,
And theirs was lofty as their native peaks,
Pure as the snow-wreath round the highest curl'd.
For those that died for deathless rights
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And won the first of many patriot fights;
For senate, camp, and civic home,
Which, when their sun with bloody disk
Announced the extremest hour of risk,
Never despair'd of Rome;
For names exulting echo speaks
To Alpine vallies, and are hurl'd
Reverberating round the world,—
So dear to men must ever be
Heroic love of liberty,
And theirs was lofty as their native peaks,
Pure as the snow-wreath round the highest curl'd.
And would that I could chant to trembling strings,
Trembling with fervour, pity, shame,
That Girl who from her sheepfold came
Affrighted armies to command,
And drove the invaders from the land,
And turn'd the destinies of kings:
Might swell, though grave, a more triumphant note
For Hampden, Cromwell, and the homely powers
Who, for their country and for ours,
A regal rebel smote:
Nor fail to join their worthy sons
(Not changed in soul by time or sea)
Disloyal to Old England's laws
In the same clear immortal cause
Of genuine loyalty;—
What brow to-day of England's noble ones
Gives she a fairer wreath than Washington's?
Trembling with fervour, pity, shame,
That Girl who from her sheepfold came
Affrighted armies to command,
And drove the invaders from the land,
And turn'd the destinies of kings:
Might swell, though grave, a more triumphant note
For Hampden, Cromwell, and the homely powers
Who, for their country and for ours,
A regal rebel smote:
Nor fail to join their worthy sons
(Not changed in soul by time or sea)
Disloyal to Old England's laws
In the same clear immortal cause
Of genuine loyalty;—
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Gives she a fairer wreath than Washington's?
X.
And who shall England's eulogy recount
Or measure with a song her varied story?
Proudly their sons look round them from a mount
Of peerless long-accumulating glory;
Higher than pitch of “Roman Citizen,”
While Rome was single in the seat aloft;—
Oh, look upon her, outraged, trampled, scoffed,
And think what she was then!
Or measure with a song her varied story?
Proudly their sons look round them from a mount
Of peerless long-accumulating glory;
Higher than pitch of “Roman Citizen,”
While Rome was single in the seat aloft;—
Oh, look upon her, outraged, trampled, scoffed,
And think what she was then!
Famous nations, ruling wide,
Full of strength and full of pride,
In turn have fall'n; doth England's power
Await the knell?—May Heaven avert that hour!
Yet, England, know, that never cowardice
Brought safety, nor that near-related vice
Of over-calculation. Generous heat,
High spirit from a heart of healthy beat,
Loving and boldly doing truth and right,
Grasping a noxious weed direct and tight
And so unstung,—these qualities were thine,
And placed thee where thou sittest: but decline
Thy duty (once thy joy),—all hours that mark
Thy vile serenity, dig deep and dark,
With mystic labour silent and unknown,
The pit of shame and ruin underneath thy throne!
Full of strength and full of pride,
In turn have fall'n; doth England's power
Await the knell?—May Heaven avert that hour!
Yet, England, know, that never cowardice
Brought safety, nor that near-related vice
Of over-calculation. Generous heat,
High spirit from a heart of healthy beat,
Loving and boldly doing truth and right,
Grasping a noxious weed direct and tight
And so unstung,—these qualities were thine,
And placed thee where thou sittest: but decline
Thy duty (once thy joy),—all hours that mark
Thy vile serenity, dig deep and dark,
With mystic labour silent and unknown,
The pit of shame and ruin underneath thy throne!
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XI.
War is horror, woe, and pain.Would 'twere but a poet's word!
But war must live while tyrants reign,
Who bow to nothing but the sword.
Then draw, and whirl its lightnings forth
Into the dark air of the South and North,
Till that foul potency, so far outcrept,
Be far repulsed, and surely kept
In straiter bounds; nor what this Age hath stored,
Its heritance from bygone centuries,
Its boon from effort of the brave and wise,
Fear with despotic deluge to be overswept!
XII.
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And lo! through calm and sunny skies,Fair Peace returning from above,
With joy and comfort in her eyes,
Two azure founts of heavenly love.
Her wings subside, her hand doth hold
An ivory lily tongued with gold.
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O Lord, to whom all earth belongs!(So mounts our psalm like holy fire)
Thou knewest well the oppressor's wrongs,
But never didst with him conspire!
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Abhor injustice more than death.
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Crush'd lies the power that served Thee not;Nor was there any other way.
Sternly and fiercely have we fought;
Oh grant our happier sons to say:
“That ancient conflict is the last,
And War a monster of the past.”
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From year to year, from land to land,No longer full of craft and spoil,
May Love and Knowledge, hand in hand,
Sow blessings in a grateful soil;
And angels see betwixt the poles,
One brotherhood of human souls.
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May every potentate discernThe ruler of his rule in Thee;
And every nation joy to learn
Obedience that can make them free.
For all the world is Thine alone,
Thine, Lord, the Universal Throne!
| Peace and war | |