What if it still our fate should be?
And the safe hours, enjoy'd like this,
Amid our home-scenes safe and free,
Should be the passing year of bliss?
The new one on the lecturn lies,
Its leaves the turning hand await;
Those fresh unopen'd leaves comprise
Th' unread, but written words of Fate.
O God! what are they? if they be
The bloody words of ruffian war,
Grant us success!—but rather far
Avert the scourge of victory!
Too dear the price! Ah! human forms
Of guardian husbands, cherish'd sons
Once children, hid from smallest harms
Of mind and body, cherish'd ones!
Shall ye stand up, the gallant mark
Of the brute shot, and iron rod,
And man's frame, exquisite in work,
Be treated like earth's common clod?
Shall England's polish'd glory, pure
In freedom, wisdom, high estate,
Her open Bible, and her poor
Becoming one with rich and great,—
Shall these high things be but the aim
Of envious men, in rough affray,
To try against the noble frame
Their brutal skill to rob and slay?
Forbid it Thou, who to the strong,
And wise, hast might and counsel lent;
And lead'st them danger's path along,
Audacious, firm, and confident.
Forbid it, Thou, who to the weak
Permittest to be strong in pray'r;
From Whom we wives and mothers seek
Peace to endow the new-born year.
V.
