The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
    The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
  The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
    The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

  The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
    The rattling musketry, the clashing blade—­
  And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
    The diapason of the cannonade.

  Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
    With such accursed instruments as these,
  Thou drownest nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
    And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

  Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
  Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
  Given to redeem the human mind from error,
    There were no need of arsenals nor forts;

  The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred;
    And every nation that should lift again
  Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
    Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

  Down the dark future, through long generations,
    The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
  And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
    I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”

  Peace!—­and no longer from its brazen portals
    The blast of war’s great organ shakes the skies;
  But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,
    The holy melodies of love arise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

AN OLD BATTLE-FIELD.

  The softest whisperings of the scented South,
  And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;

  And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
  The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;

  With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
  And blue skies bending over love and home.

  But still the thought:  Somewhere,—­upon the hills,
  Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,

  Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
  For the loved sound of unreturning feet,

  And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
  Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!

FRANK LEBBY STANTON.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

  Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
    Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
  And fiery hearts and armed hands
    Encountered in the battle-cloud.

  Ah! never shall the land forget
    How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—­
  Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
    Upon the soil they fought to save.

  Now all is calm and fresh and still;
    Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
  And talk of children on the hill,
    And bell of wandering kine, are heard.