STANZAS

Written on seeing Flags and other Ensigns of War, hanging in a Country Church.

Oh! why amid this hallowed scene.

Should signs of mortal feud be found;

Why seek with such vain gauds to wean

Our thoughts from holier relics 'round?

More fitting emblems here abound

Of glory's bright, unfading wreath;—

Conquests, with purer triumphs crowned;—

Proud victories over Sin and Death!

Of these how many records rise

Before my chastened spirit now;

Memorials, pointing to the skies,

Of Christian battles fought below.

What need of yon stern things to shew

That darker deeds have oft been done?—

Is't not enough for Man to know

He lives but through the blood of ONE!

And thou, mild delegate of God,

Whose words of balm, and guiding light.

Would lead us, from earth's drear abode,

To worlds with bliss for ever bright,—

What have the spoils of mortal fight

To do with themes 'tis thine to teach?

Faith's saving grace—each sacred rite

Thou know'st to practice as to preach!

The blessings of the contrite heart,

Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim;

The tears from sinners' eyes that start,

Are meetest records of thy fame.

The glory that may grace thy name

From loftier triumphs sure must spring;—

The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,

Trophies like these can never bring!

Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,

With peace and love, and hope imbued,—

Some vision calm of bliss to blot,

And turn our thoughts on deeds of blood,—

Should signs of battle-fields intrude:—

Man wants no trophies here of strife;

His Oriflamme—Faith unsubdued;—

His Panoply—a spotless life!