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Long was the prayer he uttered,

Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him,

And still I thought of thee.

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

As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that near us hangs

Shines on a distant field.

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 Norse

man's song,

And loud, amid the universal clamour,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

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' rerels 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, О man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly

voices, 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!

And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !

Down the dark future, through long genera

tions, 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.

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