The Battle Autumn of 1862

The flags of war like storm birds fly,

        The charging trumpets blow;

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

        No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps

        Her ancient promises well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps,

        The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours,

        Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers

        Like jewels on her arms.

What means the gladness of the plain,

        This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the bread of grain

        And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,

        And hearts with hate are hot;

But even-paced come round the years,

        And nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,

        With songs our groans of pain;

She mocks with tints of flowers and leaf,

        The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear

        Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;

Too near to God for doubt or fear,

        She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below

        The fires that blast and burn;

For all the tears of blood we sow

        She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours

        The good of suffering born,

The hearts that blossom like her flowers

        And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,

        The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees

        Our golden prophecies.

Oh, give to us her finer ear;

        Above this stormy din,

We, too, would hear the bells of cheer

        Ring peace and freedom in.