For time stands still in one long weary day; And since the Tide of Even may not come, Order departs, and leaves the world amazed.
Beforetime it was so, that when the day—
After fair promise of returning given—
Went out of sight behind the silent hills,
And out of sight beyond the western wave,
Sending the while among the peaceful clouds,—
Like one who gives a look of love at parting,-
A blessing of rich beams,-then, it was so,
That a calm voice came quietly to all,
And softly said-Now, unto you, be peace.
The Tide of Even floweth on;
The time of toil is past and gone;
From thought, and care, and labour cease: Now, while the night her curtain draws Around the realm of soft repose,-Now, unto you, be peace.
Ye cheerful wild flowers, sweet and fair;
Lilies and roses, rich and rare,
Receive, from glow and glare, release:
To fold your fair and fragrant bloom,
Come gentle hands of dewy gloom ;-
Now, unto you, 'be peace.
Ye birds that hardly know a friend,
There's One on whom we all depend,
Whose care for you doth never cease:
Go to your resting-places now,
Under the tree, or on the bough ;-
Now, unto you, be peace.
O, workers on the hill and plain,
The Tide of Even flows again,
With, for the weary,-blest release;
Thro' Him who loved, and for you died,
Now in God's heart your being hide ;-
Now, unto you, be peace.
But now, in this our vision, no such song
Falls ever on the ear; for no night comes.
The bright sun evermore, with summer splendour,
Shineth above, and looketh down upon us;
For, lo, in this our vision, neither eve,
Nor morn, nor Spring, nor cold of Winter cometh. The world in fear, astonished and alarm'd,
At every moment meeteth new distress,
And groweth sick of sunshine.
Two mighty hosts, that represent two nations,
Move on to meet in battle. Flashing swords,
Like fiery flying serpent-tongues that hiss
At aught like peace, and whose well-polish'd blades,
Like lines of solid flame, burn with a thirst
That asks for blood to quench it, come to drink,—
To drink of, and be drunk with, human blood!
The sun looks brightly on.
Yet is there cloud along the line of march,
About the cavalry's portentous course,
And round the rumble of th' artillery-cloud.
But those clouds, born of dust and perspiration,
Of blinding sand, and of a salty vapour,—
They bring no blessing from the sky above-
No goodness for the ground; but, on subsiding,
Will be succeeded by less blessed gloom-
By clouds of fire and brimstone, whence will leap,
Into those living lines, the shout of death,
The blaze of battle, and of ball the storm!
The horror is at hand. The sun looks on.
But why should those who, when afflicted, mourn'd,
And, when in tribulation, made complaint,-
Those, who in days of helpless babyhood,
Were tenderly watched over, and attended
By fond affection, that, forsaking self,
For their loved sakes, kept far as keep it could,
From them all wild alarm, and grief and pain,-
That led them on in carefulness lest cold
Should come upon them with a grasp of ice,
And freeze them unto death; or, lest the flame
With its red dash should cancel their existence ;—
Oh, why should they with one another war,
And work the ruin love from each has kept?
Can it have been that those who go to battle,
Moving as though the mountains were in motion,
And with the order of the ocean waves ;-
Can it have been that when one, on this side,
In time of peace met one, now on the other;
Met him half dead, because that he had fallen
Into the hands of robbers fierce and cruel,
Who heartlessly had stripped him; deeply wounded;
And left him bleeding on the lone wayside ;-
Can it have been that one, with this side moving,
Did, like the good Samaritan of old,
Bind up his wounds who suffer'd by the way;
Say, "be of comfort, friend," and place him where
A tender kindness did, with healing virtue,
Revive and bring him round to hope and health;
Out of the teeth of death to life and love?
Can it have been? O, it has often been!
How can it be then, that those mighty armies
Are ready there, to do their earnest utmost,
To crush each other into death's dark deep?
It were no answer here to say with Cowper,
"War is a game, which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at." These are no kings'
subjects!
These are the sovereign people, each of whom,
Reckons himself superior to a king!
And yet, O shade of Cowper, these make war;
Come forth to fight with coarser, fiercer hate,
And with more wildly, wicked, wanton havoc,
Than yet the world has seen, or heard, or thought of!
Hark! 'tis the word of War!
The battle burns. As if from woods afire,
The clouds of smoke go up and shock the sun,
That seems for very shame to turn aside!
O, what a howling wilderness of trees-
A human forest suddenly ablaze!
The spirits of the thunder and the lightning,
Confined within the compass of the battle,
Dash at the bars that cage them, wild with fury;
Then, baffled turning, try the opposing bars,
Like fiery eagles seeking to escape
The fearful bondage of the smoke-fill'd cage,
That holds them prisoners, strongly as the grave
Doth hold its quiet dead. A whirlwind strong,
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