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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865
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Год написания книги
2019
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And the distant thunders die,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,
Like the smile of Him on high.
Lulled the storm and the onset.
Earth lies in a sunny swoon;
Stiller splendor of noon,
Softer glory of sunset,
Milder starlight and moon!
For the kindly Seasons love us;
They smile over trench and clod,
(Where we left the bravest of us,)—
There's a brighter green of the sod,
And a holier calm above us
In the blesséd Blue of God.
The roar and ravage were vain;
And Nature, that never yields,
Is busy with sun and rain
At her old sweet work again
On the lonely battle-fields.
How the tall white daisies grow
Where the grim artillery rolled!
(Was it only a moon ago?
It seems a century old,)—
And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,—
But our good Father is gone.
There was tumbling of traitor fort,
Flaming of traitor fleet,—
Lighting of city and port,
Clasping in square and street.
There was thunder of mine and gun,
Cheering by mast and tent,—
When—his dread work all done,
And his high fame full won—
Died the Good President.
In his quiet chair he sate,
Pure of malice or guile,
Stainless of fear or hate,—
And there played a pleasant smile
On the rough and careworn face;
For his heart was all the while
On means of mercy and grace.
The brave old Flag drooped o'er him,
(A fold in the hard hand lay,)—
He looked, perchance, on the play,—
But the scene was a shadow before him,
For his thoughts were far away.
'Twas but the morn, (yon fearful
Death-shade, gloomy and vast,
Lifting slowly at last,)
His household heard him say,
"'Tis long since I've been so cheerful,
So light of heart as to-day."
'Twas dying, the long dread clang,—
But, or ever the blesséd ray
Of peace could brighten to-day,
Murder stood by the way,—
Treason struck home his fang!
One throb—and, without a pang,
That pure soul passed away.
Idle, in this our blindness,
To marvel we cannot see
Wherefore such things should be,
Or to question Infinite Kindness
Of this or of that Decree,
Or to fear lest Nature bungle,
That in certain ways she errs:
The cobra in the jungle,
The crotalus in the sod,
Evil and good are hers;—
Murderers and torturers!
Ye, too, were made by God.
All slowly heaven is nighing,
Needs that offence must come;
Ever the Old Wrong dying
Will sting, in the death-coil lying,
And hiss till its fork be dumb.
But dare deny no further,
Black-hearted, brazen-cheeked!
Ye on whose lips yon murther
These fifty moons hath reeked,—
From the wretched scenic dunce,
They fade in the far-off sky;
And a lovely summer comes,
Like the smile of Him on high.
Lulled the storm and the onset.
Earth lies in a sunny swoon;
Stiller splendor of noon,
Softer glory of sunset,
Milder starlight and moon!
For the kindly Seasons love us;
They smile over trench and clod,
(Where we left the bravest of us,)—
There's a brighter green of the sod,
And a holier calm above us
In the blesséd Blue of God.
The roar and ravage were vain;
And Nature, that never yields,
Is busy with sun and rain
At her old sweet work again
On the lonely battle-fields.
How the tall white daisies grow
Where the grim artillery rolled!
(Was it only a moon ago?
It seems a century old,)—
And the bee hums in the clover,
As the pleasant June comes on;
Aye, the wars are all over,—
But our good Father is gone.
There was tumbling of traitor fort,
Flaming of traitor fleet,—
Lighting of city and port,
Clasping in square and street.
There was thunder of mine and gun,
Cheering by mast and tent,—
When—his dread work all done,
And his high fame full won—
Died the Good President.
In his quiet chair he sate,
Pure of malice or guile,
Stainless of fear or hate,—
And there played a pleasant smile
On the rough and careworn face;
For his heart was all the while
On means of mercy and grace.
The brave old Flag drooped o'er him,
(A fold in the hard hand lay,)—
He looked, perchance, on the play,—
But the scene was a shadow before him,
For his thoughts were far away.
'Twas but the morn, (yon fearful
Death-shade, gloomy and vast,
Lifting slowly at last,)
His household heard him say,
"'Tis long since I've been so cheerful,
So light of heart as to-day."
'Twas dying, the long dread clang,—
But, or ever the blesséd ray
Of peace could brighten to-day,
Murder stood by the way,—
Treason struck home his fang!
One throb—and, without a pang,
That pure soul passed away.
Idle, in this our blindness,
To marvel we cannot see
Wherefore such things should be,
Or to question Infinite Kindness
Of this or of that Decree,
Or to fear lest Nature bungle,
That in certain ways she errs:
The cobra in the jungle,
The crotalus in the sod,
Evil and good are hers;—
Murderers and torturers!
Ye, too, were made by God.
All slowly heaven is nighing,
Needs that offence must come;
Ever the Old Wrong dying
Will sting, in the death-coil lying,
And hiss till its fork be dumb.
But dare deny no further,
Black-hearted, brazen-cheeked!
Ye on whose lips yon murther
These fifty moons hath reeked,—
From the wretched scenic dunce,
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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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