Do ye still dream, ye voiceless, slumbering
ones,
Of glories gained through
struggles fierce and long,
Lulled by the muffled boom of ghostly
guns
That weave the music of a
battle-song?
In fitful flight do misty visions reel,
While restless chargers toss
their bridle-reins?
When down the lines gleam points of polished
steel,
And phantom columns flood
the sun-lit plains?
A breathless hush! A shout that mounts
on high
Till every hoary hill from
sleep awakes!
Swift as the unleashed lightning cleaves
the sky,
The tumbling, tempest-rush
of battle breaks!
The smoke-wreathed cannon launch their
hell-winged shells!
The rattling crash of musketry’s
sharp sound
Sinks in the deafening din of hoarse,
wild yells
And squadrons charging o’er
the trampled ground!
Down, down they rush! The cursing
riders reel
’Neath tearing shot
and savage bayonet-thrust;
A plunging charger stamps with iron heel
His dying master in the battle’s
dust.
The shrill-tongued notes of victory awake!
The black guns thunder back
the shout amain!
In crimson-crested waves the columns break,
Like shattered foam, across
the shell-swept plain.
A still form lies upon the death-crowned
hill,
With sightless eyes, gray
lips that may not speak.
His dead hand holds his shot-torn banner
still—
Its proud folds pressed against
his bloodstained cheek.
O slumbering heroes, cease to dream of
war!
Let hatreds die behind the
tread of years.
Forget the past, like some long-vanished
scar
Whose smart is healed in drops
of falling tears.
Keep, keep your glory; but forget the
strife!
Roll up your battle-flags
so stained and torn!
Teach, teach our hearts, that still dream
on in life,
To let the dead past sleep
with those we mourn!
From pitying Heaven a pitying angel came.
Smiling, she bade the tongues
of conflict cease.
Her wide wings fanned away the smoke and
flame,
Hushed the red battle’s
roar. God called her Peace.
From land and sea she swept mad passion’s
glow;
Yet left a laurel for the
hero’s fame.
She whispered hope to hearts in grief
bowed low,
And taught our lips, in love,
to shape her name.
She sheathed the dripping sword; her soft
hands pres’t
Grim foes apart, who scowled
in anger deep.
She laid two grand old standards down
to rest,
And on her breast rocked weary
War to sleep.
Peace spreads her pinions wide from South
to North;
Dead enmity within the grave
is laid.
The church towers ring their holy anthems
forth,
To hush the thunders of the
cannonade.
EDWARD PEPLE.