Poems (Trask)/At Last
For works with similar titles, see At Last.
AT LAST.
The snows of winter fall around; The Northern breezes blow; The hearth is piled with blazing logs, That fill the room with glow; No more our thoughts go out afar To dreary prison-cells, No more the south winds seem to us Like dismal funeral knells.
No more the printed page of death Glares in our shrinking eyes; No more we seem to hear, by night, The dying's feeble cries. Thank God for that! at last, at last, The weary war is o'er! Oh, days of waiting, nights of gloom, Return to us no more!
Something is lost from many a home! Somewhere they lie to-night, The noble hearts who died to win The battle for the right. Peace to them! Though we miss the love That swelled for us alone, We're thankful that they died a death We'll never blush to own!
And for the living! those who've come Back to their homes again, Scarred with their wounds, all bronzed, and gray, And furrowed with sharp pain,—Be tender of them! We have dwelt In peace and quiet here, While they have fought to save for us All that we held most dear.
Honor the soldiers! Wheresoe'er You see the faded blue, Think that it hides a loyal heart, To land and honor true! And when at night, these wintry nights, We gather side by side, One moment's tender silence give To those who fought and died.
February, 1866.