Poems (Jones)/Shine, Sun of the Summer
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HINE, sun of the summer; bloom, roses of June!
Bring joy to the senses and health to the brain:
Our ears ache with cries from each Southern lagoon,
Our hearts ache with news from the fields of the slain—
Bring us balm for the pain.
SHINE, SUN OF THE SUMMER.JUNE, 1864.
HINE, sun of the summer; bloom, roses of June!Bring joy to the senses and health to the brain:
Our ears ache with cries from each Southern lagoon,
Our hearts ache with news from the fields of the slain—
Bring us balm for the pain.
Shine, sun of the summer; blow, wind of the west,
And hurl these black battle-clouds back to the wave,
Where, with seals of destruction on forehead and breast,
(The scourge of our nation, the shame of the brave,)
Charleston cowers by her grave.
And hurl these black battle-clouds back to the wave,
Where, with seals of destruction on forehead and breast,
(The scourge of our nation, the shame of the brave,)
Charleston cowers by her grave.
Shine, sun of the summer; smite, sword of the free!
Smite well, till the coiled serpent, shuddering, dies;
Till war heaves no more the deep breast of the sea,
And the white rose of peace o'er our land shall arise,
Wooing dew from the skies.
Smite well, till the coiled serpent, shuddering, dies;
Till war heaves no more the deep breast of the sea,
And the white rose of peace o'er our land shall arise,
Wooing dew from the skies.
Shine, sun of the summer; on, flag of our trust,
Wherever the fell flames of Treason have crossed!
Till earth hides with grass faces falling to dust,
And we—weep our lives out in woe for the cost,
As we number our lost.
Wherever the fell flames of Treason have crossed!
Till earth hides with grass faces falling to dust,
And we—weep our lives out in woe for the cost,
As we number our lost.
Shine, sun of the summer; bloom, roses of June
Blow, soft wind, and heal the hot fevers of hate;
Rise, rivers, and circle each Southern lagoon,
Till lilies are throned on your waters, in state,
Where blood ran, of late.
Blow, soft wind, and heal the hot fevers of hate;
Rise, rivers, and circle each Southern lagoon,
Till lilies are throned on your waters, in state,
Where blood ran, of late.
Shine, sun of the summer; sink, dews of the air!
Our wounded hearts ache for the hour of repose:
But the God of the nation has answered our prayer,
And the serpent lies dying, just under the rose—
This is balm for our woes.
Our wounded hearts ache for the hour of repose:
But the God of the nation has answered our prayer,
And the serpent lies dying, just under the rose—
This is balm for our woes.