| God of our fathers, known of old, |
| Lord of our far-flung battle line, |
| Beneath whose awful Hand we hold |
| Dominion over palm and pine— |
| Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, |
| Lest we forget—lest we forget! |
| |
| The tumult and the shouting dies; |
| The captains and the kings depart: |
| Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, |
| An humble and a contrite heart. |
| Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, |
| Lest we forget—lest we forget! |
| |
| Far-called, our navies melt away; |
| On dune and headland sinks the fire: |
| Lo, all our pomp of yesterday |
| Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! |
| Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, |
| Lest we forget—lest we forget! |
| |
| If, drunk with sight of power, we loose |
| Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— |
| Such boasting as the Gentiles use, |
| Or lesser breeds without the Law— |
| Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, |
| Lest we forget—lest we forget! |
| |
| For heathen heart that puts her trust |
| In reeking tube and iron shard, |
| All valiant dust that builds on dust, |
| And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, |
| For frantic boast and foolish word, |
| Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! |
| Amen. |
| |
| Rudyard Kipling. |
| O Friends! with whom my feet have trod |
| The quiet aisles of prayer, |
| Glad witness to your zeal for God |
| And love of man I bear. |
| |
| I trace your lines of argument; |
| Your logic linked and strong |
| I weigh as one who dreads dissent, |
| And fears a doubt as wrong. |
| |
| But still my human hands are weak |
| To hold your iron creeds: |
| Against the words ye bid me speak |
| My heart within me pleads. |
| |
| Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? |
| Who talks of scheme and plan? |
| The Lord is God! He needeth not |
| The poor device of man. |
| |
| I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground |
| Ye tread with boldness shod; |
| I dare not fix with mete and bound |
| The love and power of God. |
| |
| Ye praise His justice; even such |
| His pitying love I deem; |
| Ye seek a king; I fain would touch |
| The robe that hath no seam. |
| |
| Ye see the curse which overbroods |
| A world of pain and loss; |
| I hear our Lord's beatitudes |
| And prayer upon the cross. |
| |
| More than your schoolmen teach, within |
| Myself, alas! I know; |
| Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, |
| Too small the merit show. |
| |
| I bow my forehead to the dust, |
| I veil mine eyes for shame, |
| And urge, in trembling self-distrust, |
| A prayer without a claim. |
| |
| I see the wrong that round me lies, |
| I feel the guilt within; |
| I hear, with groan and travail-cries, |
| The world confess its sin. |
| |
| Yet, in the maddening maze of things, |
| And tossed by storm and flood, |
| To one fixed stake my spirit clings; |
| I know that God is good! |
| |
| Not mine to look where cherubim |
| And seraphs may not see, |
| But nothing can be good in Him |
| Which evil is in me. |
| |
| The wrong that pains my soul below |
| I dare not throne above; |
| I know not of His hate,—I know |
| His goodness and His love. |
| |
| I dimly guess from blessings known |
| Of greater out of sight, |
| And, with the chastened Psalmist, own |
| His judgments too are right. |
| |
| I long for household voices gone, |
| For vanished smiles I long, |
| But God hath led my dear ones on, |
| And he can do no wrong. |
| |
| I know not what the future hath |
| Of marvel or surprise, |
| Assured alone that life and death |
| His mercy underlies. |
| |
| And if my heart and flesh are weak |
| To bear an untried pain, |
| The bruised reed He will not break, |
| But strengthen and sustain. |
| |
| No offering of my own I have, |
| Nor works my faith to prove; |
| I can but give the gifts He gave, |
| And plead His love for love. |
| |
| And so beside the Silent Sea, |
| I wait the muffled oar; |
| No harm from Him can come to me |
| On ocean or on shore. |
| |
| I know not where His islands lift |
| Their fronded palms in air; |
| I only know I cannot drift |
| Beyond His love and care. |
| |
| O brothers! if my faith is vain, |
| If hopes like these betray, |
| Pray for me that my feet may gain |
| The sure and safer way. |
| |
| And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen |
| Thy creatures as they be, |
| Forgive me if too close I lean |
| My human heart on Thee! |
| |
| John G. Whittier. |
| Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass |
| He turned them into the river-lane; |
| One after another he let them pass. |
| Then fastened the meadow-bars again. |
| |
| Under the willows and over the hill, |
| He patiently followed their sober pace; |
| The merry whistle for once was still, |
| And something shadowed the sunny face. |
| |
| Only a boy! and his father had said |
| He never could let his youngest go; |
| Two already were lying dead |
| Under the feet of the trampling foe. |
| |
| But after the evening work was done, |
| And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, |
| Over his shoulder he slung his gun, |
| And stealthily followed the footpath damp,— |
| |
| Across the clover and through the wheat. |
| With resolute heart and purpose grim, |
| Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, |
| And the blind bat's flitting startled him. |
| |
| Thrice since then had the lanes been white, |
| And the orchards sweet with apple bloom; |
| And now, when the cows came back at night, |
| The feeble father drove them home. |
| |
| For news had come to the lonely farm |
| That three were lying where two had lain; |
| And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm |
| Could never lean on a son's again. |
| |
| The summer day grew cool and late; |
| He went for the cows when the work was done; |
| But down the lane, as he opened the gate, |
| He saw them coming, one by one,— |
|
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| Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, |
| Shaking their horns in the evening wind, |
| Cropping the buttercups out of the grass— |
| But who was it following close behind? |
| |
| Loosely swung in the idle air |
| The empty sleeve of army blue; |
| And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, |
| Looked out a face that the father knew. |
| |
| For southern prisons will sometimes yawn, |
| And yield their dead unto life again; |
| And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn |
| In golden glory at last may wane. |
| |
| The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; |
| For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, |
| And under the silent evening skies |
| Together they followed the cattle home. |
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| Kate P. Osgood. |