Strike thou and home, but not in wrath fulfil a high command;
Avenging angels weep to smite a sin-o'erburdened land;
Strike, mourning, at the word of God, and hold at His behest
These words in water are not writ—'The merciful are blest.'
It is not for her trampled flag that England bares her sword;
It is not for a just revenge upon a murderous horde;
It is to prove to blood-stained men, self-blinded of their sight,
That evil hath no chance with good or darkness with the light.
But guiltless blood, where'er it flows, in black or white men's veins
Is precious in the sight of Him who trieth heart and reins;
Oh, watch it be not shed in vain!—Oh, act as heretofore!
And let a wreath-encircled name one priceless wreath have more.
A Farewell To Romance.
Farewell!—a long farewell—to thee, Romance!
We may not meet as we have met before,
Though yet the witchery of that downcast glance
Enthralls my heart, it must enthral no more.
Though yet the music of thy silver voice
Rings in my ear—it must no longer ring;
The stern command of duty bids us part,
The moments hasten and she grants us few;
But ere thou speed'st where younger hearts rejoice,
And ere I wander like an alien thing,
Jostling and jostled in the world's wide mart,
Fain would I murmur 'mid my sighs 'Adieu.'
