POETRY.
CHRISTMAS, 1901.
Gown are the leafy noons, and far behind The suns that rose and set to warbled song, The moons that heard the deathless nightingale ; And the last furrow is turned in the last field, And sleeps the buried seed; and with grey skies, And voiceless woods, and feathery boughs that lace With delicate bareness the faint rosy eve, And with chill winds, draws near the holy day That saw immortal hope to mortal men Born with a babe new-born. 0 God and man, In Whom a warring world bath hoped, and dreamed
Through bloody years of healing and of peace—
How fain were we, upon Thy holy day, For peace and healing, and for quiet hours, Rest, and atonement of all wrong, how fain !
But no, not yet, not yet! The silent stealth Of swift, elusive foes, the camp surprised, The pouring volley, and scamper of hoofs, and thud Of strong men falling, mock the hope of peace; Nor may we look for rest and quietness While still the sudden shot on far-off fields Rings hollow in widowed ears and desolate homes.
0 Lord, how long ? May we not, weary of blood And endless labour of hopeless strife, at last Lift to Thee aching hands for peace P Ah, no.
Not in mid-furrow may we lift our hands Though bleeding from the plough, and leave the fields Of Empire to the weed. Even on Thy day, Even on Thy day, dear Lord, we will not ask For peace that is not ours. Since our high doom Hath laid on us unwilling war, and since Naught but the bared sword in reluctant hands Can save us from the shame of tasks undone, Give us, ah! give us strength to wield the sword Unwearied, patience not to faint or flag, And wisdom out of waste and ruin to win Peace smiling fairer over wider fields.
CHARLES CAMP TARELLL
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