  “Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! O, rest, thou doleful mother of mankind!” Wordsworth I have not seen thy beauty for the pall Of horror, hanging over all the world, I have not heard thy music for the din Of battle-lines against each other hurled. And now thy face is covered with a shroud Of purest white, and thou wilt take thy rest; The winds will sing their evening lullabies, With memories of love and feathered nest. And mothers, at the dusk, will list thereto, And think of croonings in the years gone by, When little boys sat by the window-panes, And gazed with wonder on the moonlit sky. And now, perchance, they lie beneath thy shroud, Or destined soon to join the sleeping host,— War’s sacrifice, O God, how man doth sin! How in the utter darkness he seems lost! How far from nature has he erred and strayed, A prey to greed, and arrogance of kings! Shall he at last, a prodigal, return To dwell in peace ’neath the “Almighty’s wings?” The doleful mother of mankind doth wait, And when her children come, anew she dons Her spring-attire, and smiles forgivingly, And breathes her peace upon her weary sons. And then again I’ll feel the throb of joy, And glory in the wonders of thy face, Yea, revel in thy thousand harmonies, And wander satisfied along thy ways. |
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