Peace After War.
- Rest for the dead. No more, for marches dreary,
They stretch their stiffened limbs when bugles sound;
No more at night they lie down, wet and weary,
- Upon the sodden ground.
No more the gallant charge, amid the screaming
Of murderous iron ball and bursting shell,
Up steep and slippery slopes___with warm blood streaming___
- "Into the mouth of hell."
No more the dreadful search, the battle over,
While up the placid sky the white moon climbs;
No more the mournful truce, while both sides cover
- Torn breasts and shattered limbs.
Not truce to-day, but peace. Soft grass is creeping,
Year after year, above the broken sod,
Where gallant foemen___foes no more___are sleeping,
- Blossoms the golden rod.
Where passed the armies, when the shock of meeting,
Deep fissures were, and fields all tramped and torn,
Now happy birds, the same old song repeating,
- Flit through the growing corn.
Thus Nature speaks to all, with mute appealing,
Wrapping in tender green each gaping scar.
Shall man alone resist her touch of healing,
- And still remain at war?
No, no. If any lurking hate yet lingers
In any heart, oh fling it far away!
While fragrant flowers are strewed by loving angers
- Above both blue and gray.
__Ellen P. Allerton.