The War-Spirit.
War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path
Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry,
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And history her annal emblazons with thine.
War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known;
I have look'd on the field when the battle was done,
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey,
And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.
I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain,
While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;
Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame,
The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.
War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried,
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.
Early Recollections.
The years of my childhood passed away in contentment and peace. My lot was in humble and simple industry; yet my heart was full of gladness, though I scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the murmured song of the falling brook.
I made to myself a companionship among the things of nature, and was happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down pensively; for I was alone, and had neither brother nor sister.
I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older than myself, into whose hand I might put my own, and say, "Lead me forth to look at the solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, because there was no sister to lay her head upon the same pillow.
At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a friend. I did not then understand that its name was Thought. But I talked with it, and it comforted me. I waited for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of me, I answered.