SONNETS.
109
GUNS OF PEACE.
Sunday Night, March 30th, 1856.
HOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain, Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far,
In the long patience of inglorious war,
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain,—
All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain—
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue,
Do ye look down the trembling stars among
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain?
Or wiser grown since reaching those new spheres,
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed?—
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears—
"Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled,
And make all wars to cease throughout the world."
