Our Country

HENCE—ye rude sounds, that wake me from my sleep, And fright away my dreams, peaceful and pure. I shudder at the cannon's deafning roar, The martial echo, and the shout of joy Where joy is not. For say—can joy be there Where honour and the blissful time of peace Are parted names? And you, ye peaceful bells, That call the meek soul to the house of prayer, Why with your hallow'd voices will ye swell This morning tumult? Oh, that ye would leave Me to my slumbers; better 'twere to dream Of weariness and woe, to scale the cliff Snow crown'd and dizzy, see the foe approach, And when you spring to motion find the limbs Stiff—and the tongue enchain'd; or dare the flood Upon some broken bridge—Ah! better far To suffer for an hour, and rise in peace, Than to muse waking on disastrous war And glory lost. To wake, alas, and think That honour once was ours, and find it not, Is but to wake to pain. To see the wounds Our bleeding country bears, and then to find No balm in Gilead—no physician there, Is more than torture. Hence! away, ye sounds Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh, Your melody discordant; for the heart Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much, Look to the heights of Queenston; see the plains Where bleach the bones of valour; hear the voice Of treachery false-hearted; hear the tones Of jarring counsels; hear the widow's wail! Look where the troubled skies are red, with light Of flaming villages—and meteors wild Glare o'er the darken'd concave!

Who are these, That from their cold and humid beds arise? The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled, When war was righteous, and they slept in peace. Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits, And hollow voices on the midnight blast Tell of disgrace and death.—But do you say These are the visions of a fearful mind? And you are still for war? Then sound the charge, Urge on the combat—bid the battle rage— The victim bleed—the lonely orphan mourn. If deeds like these delight you, take your fill, And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain. Since war you love, then arm you for the fight, Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw A stronger fence around the endanger'd home Of those you love. And since for war you call, Prepare for war; and train your infant sons To deeds of daring; let no voice of peace Or mercy reach them, lest it enervate Souls given to war; but let the tale of blood Sooth them to slumber, and the trumpet's clang Break up their cradle dream. Since war you will, Then arm you for the deeds and woes of war; Stand firm and stedfast; for your Country looks That those who urge her on so mad a course, Should not desert her in her day of need.

But let the Christian place a stronger trust In Him the God of Might, who sits serene Ruling the tumults of this jarring world, And marking for himself the righteous soul, Who, whether prison'd in a cell of pain, Or driven to fields of blood, or tost on waves Dark and tempestuous, at length shall rise With rapture to that calm and pure abode, Where war, and woe, and error cannot come.