MARSTON MOOR

O, summer-high that day the sun

His chariot drove o'er Marston wold:

A rippling sea of amber wheat

That floods the moorland vale with gold.

With harvest light the valley laughs,

The sheaves in mellow sunshine sleep;

— Too rathe the crop, too red the swathes

Ere night the scythe of Death shall reap!

Then thick and fast o'er all the moor

The crimson'd sabre-lightnings fly;

And thick and fast the death-bolts dash,

And thunder-peals to peals reply.

Where Evening arched her fiery dome

Went up the roar of mortal foes:—

Then o'er a deathly peace the moon

In silver silence sailing rose.

Sweet hour, when heaven is nearest home,

And children's kisses close the day!

O disaccord with nature's calm,

Unholy requiem of the fray!

White maiden Queen that sail'st above,

Thy dew-tears on the fallen fling,—

The blighted wreaths of civil strife,

The war that can no triumph bring!

— O pale with that deep pain of those

Who cannot save, yet must foresee,—

Surveying all the ills to flow

From that too-victor victory;

When‘ gainst the unwisely guided King

The dark self-centred Captain stood,

And law and right and peace went down

In that red sea of brothers’ blood;—

O long, long, long the years, fair Maid,

Before thy patient eye shall view

The shrine of England's law restored,

Her homes their native peace renew!