THUNDER IN THE EAST
Hark! Hark! the thunder! These are not the few
Slow words in which our Summer speaks at last
All her imperial passion, which being past,
Her smile makes smooth the battle-field of blue!—
God's own great music which our childhood knew!
No! Land and sea, now listening all aghast,
Whilst Death 'twixt camp and town roars by so fast,
Ask Day and Night, "How long?" We ask it too.
At home the first note of the nightingale,
And Beauty[1] curtseying to a people's cheer;
Abroad the Brave thundering against the Brave
"How long?" Till Europe bid her Freedom, Hail!
Then East and West in pardoning pride draw near,
And clasp stern hands above your children's grave.
Slow words in which our Summer speaks at last
All her imperial passion, which being past,
Her smile makes smooth the battle-field of blue!—
God's own great music which our childhood knew!
No! Land and sea, now listening all aghast,
Whilst Death 'twixt camp and town roars by so fast,
Ask Day and Night, "How long?" We ask it too.
At home the first note of the nightingale,
And Beauty[1] curtseying to a people's cheer;
Abroad the Brave thundering against the Brave
"How long?" Till Europe bid her Freedom, Hail!
Then East and West in pardoning pride draw near,
And clasp stern hands above your children's grave.
April 24,1853,
77
- ↑ The Empress Eugénie on her visit to the Crystal Palace.
