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The tumult and the shouting dies —
The captains and the kings depart Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! Far-called our navies melt away
On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe –
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law -
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
15 Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
TO A WATERFOWL
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side ?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast The desert and illimitable air
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
The Death of the Flowers
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the
year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows
brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves
lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's
tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs
the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all
the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that
lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister
hood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of
flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good
of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold Novem
ber rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS
The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the sum
mer glow; But on the hills the goldenrod, and the aster in the
wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn
beauty stood Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls
the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from up
land, glade, and glen.
And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still
such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all
the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 10 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra
grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty
died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up, and perished
by my side.