With cross in hand, the pious father goes
From camp to camp on Heaven's errand bent;
Soothing the wretched, overborne with woes,
And to the weary bringing sweet content.
Oh, gentle soul, too kind for this rude earth,
What virtues doth thy being comprehend;
Thou shouldst have lived in times of peaceful mirth,
When war was not, and man ne'er lacked a friend.
Of what avail those peaceful words of thine,
When for the battle armies are arrayed;