Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart Like pine trees, dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms But from their silent pipes no anthems pealing Startles the village with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamour, I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's skin: The tumult of each sacked and burning village, The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, And jarrest the celestial harmonies; Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Where half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. |