Poems (Trask)/Spring, 1866

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

SPRING.

1866.

The quiet earth greens at the touch of spring;
 No more the mild blue skies are dim with smoke,
No more the bugle's startling war-notes ring,
 No more the sunshine glints the sabre's stroke.

The bluebird whistles from the forest tree;
 The wood is sweet with wild arbutus' breath;
The winds that sweep the fragrant southern sea
 No longer bring us news of strife and death.

The war is ended! we can sleep at night,
 Dreaming no more of bristling battle-plains,
Where men and horses mingle in the fight,
 And shot and shell drop fast their murderous rains.

The faithful sentinel can rest him now;
 His musket hangs above some cottage door;
His children climb to kiss his lips and brow,
 And hear the story of the charge once more.

Peace reigns. 'Tis quiet all across the land!
 The hearth-fires gleam; the heroes are at home,
Save those who fell from out the loyal band,
 Whose tired feet will never homeward come.

God rest them well! and let the summer rain
 Fall gently on the sod that o'er them grows!
Relieved from care, released from toil and pain,
 They heed not summer's flowers or winter's snows.

Bought with a price! a price of precious blood!
 This glorious peace that in the end is ours!
God sent His judgments in a fiery flood,—
 His peace at last, her forehead crowned with flowers!