| BESIDE a stricken field I stood; | |
| On the torn turf, on grass and wood, | |
| Hung heavily the dew of blood. | |
| |
| Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, | |
| But all the air was quick with pain | 5 |
| And gusty sighs and tearful rain. | |
| |
| Two angels, each with drooping head | |
| And folded wings and noiseless tread, | |
| Watched by that valley of the dead. | |
| |
| The one, with forehead saintly bland | 10 |
| And lips of blessing, not command, | |
| Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. | |
| |
| The other's brows were scarred and knit, | |
| His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, | |
| His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. | 15 |
| |
| "How long"—I knew the voice of Peace,— | |
| "Is there no respite?—no release?— | |
| When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? | |
| |
| "O Lord, how long!—One human soul | |
| Is more than any parchment scroll, | 20 |
| Or any flag thy winds unroll. | |
| |
| "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? | |
| How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, | |
| Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? | |
| |
| "O brother! if thine eye can see, | 25 |
| Tell how and when the end shall be, | |
| What hope remains for thee and me." | |
| |
| Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun | |
| No strife nor pang beneath the sun, | |
| When human rights are staked and won. | 30 |
| |
| "I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, | |
| I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock, | |
| I walked with Sidney to the block. | |
| |
| "The moor of Marston felt my tread, | |
| Through Jersey snows the march I led, | 35 |
| My voice Magenta's charges sped. | |
| |
| "But now, through weary day and night, | |
| I watch a vague and aimless fight | |
| For leave to strike one blow aright. | |
| |
| "On either side my foe they own: | 40 |
| One guards through love his ghastly throne, | |
| And one through fear to reverence grown. | |
| |
| "Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, | |
| By open foes, or those afraid | |
| To speed thy coming through my aid? | 45 |
| |
| "Why watch to see who win or fall?— | |
| I shake the dust against them all, | |
| I leave them to their senseless brawl." | |
| |
| "Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; | |
| The doom is near, the stake is great: | 50 |
| God knoweth if it be too late. | |
| |
| "Still wait and watch; the way prepare | |
| Where I with folded wings of prayer | |
| May follow, weaponless and bare." | |
| |
| "Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied, | 55 |
| "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed, | |
| In low lament the answer died. | |
| |
| A rustling as of wings in flight, | |
| An upward gleam of lessening white, | |
| So passed the vision, sound and sight. | 60 |
| |
| But round me, like a silver bell | |
| Rung down the listening sky to tell | |
| Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. | |
| |
| "Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod | |
| Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, | 65 |
| But all is possible with God!" | |
