POETRY.
HARVEST.
A CHALKY steep—a climbing lane— An aisle of elms—a Norman fame— Where far from din and crowd of towns Runs the soft line of waving downs. The garnered glebe in sunlight smiled, The sea-waves lipped its margin, mild; The robin from red-berried spray Piped his bright autumn roundelay; And in the church that nestled near 'Mid flowers and fruits and harvest cheer, The village raised a grateful strain To greet the ingathering of the grain.
A moment's thought it was, alas!
From those fair fields of peace to pass
To where beside a Southern main Stretohed harvests grim of death and pain.
Set has the fight's ensanguined sun, .
War's ghastly chance is dared and done, And dauntless calm has triumphed slow Over a false and callous foe.
Now come the victories that are Than the great soldier's harder far ; No sacred freedom to withdraw, Or stint the boons of equal law ; To close the civic breach, efface The rancorous dominance of race ; To act that fairly over all, Dutch, Briton, Aboriginal, In generous justice, floats alone The standard of the island throne.
jOSEPH TRUMAN.
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