Page:All quiet along the Potomac and other poems.djvu/53

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To leave them where they are, unsettled,
And praise the Lord who governs all.


NOT for thy prophetic music,
Of the summer to be born,
Not for sake of plumage shining
In the early April morn,
Listen I, O circling swallow,
In the hush of twilight rest,
To thy vesper hymn so tender,
Evening-hymn of cheer and rest:
"Svala, svala honom!"

Since the strange unwonted twilight
Hid the thorn-encircled Head,
Thou, O bird of consolation,
Hast thy word of comfort said.
On the cross above Him, staying
Wing and foot, the legend saith,
Thou, O sympathizing swallow,
Chanted till his dying breath:
"Svala, svala honom!"

'Tis a pretty legend truly,
Born beneath the midnight sun,
From the monkish convent story,
Or the painted missal won.

  1. "Console, console him!"