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PEACE NOW slowly sinks the day-long labouring Sun | |
| Behind the tranquil trees and old church-tower; | |
| And we who watch him know our day is done; | |
| For us too comes the evening—and the hour. | |
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| The sunbeams slanting through those ancient trees, | 5 |
| The sunlit lichens burning on the byre, | |
| The lark descending, and the homing bees, | |
| Proclaim the sweet relief all things desire. | |
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| Golden the river brims beneath the west, | |
| And holy peace to all the world is given; | 10 |
| The songless stockdove preens her ruddied breast; | |
| The blue smoke windeth like a prayer to heaven. | |
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| O old, old England, land of golden peace, | |
| Thy fields are spun with gossameres of gold, | |
| And golden garners gather thy increase, | 15 |
| And plenty crowns thy loveliness untold. | |
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| By sunlight or by starlight ever thou | |
| Art excellent in beauty manifold; | |
| The still star victory ever gems thy brow; | |
| Age canot age thee, ages make thee old. | 20 |
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| Thy beauty brightens with the evening sun | |
| Across the long-lit meads and distant spire: | |
| So sleep thou well—like his thy labour done; | |
| Rest in thy glory as he rests in fire. | |
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| But even in this hour of soft repose | 25 |
| A gentle sadness chides us like a friend— | |
| The sorrow of the joy that overflows, | |
| The burden of the beauty that must end. | |
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| And from the fading sunset comes a cry, | |
| And in the twilight voides wailing past, | 30 |
| Like wild-swans calling, “When we rest we die, | |
| And woe to them that linger and are last”; | |
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| And as the Sun sinks, sudden in heav’n new born | |
| There shines an armèd Angel like a Star, | |
| Who cries above the darkling world in scorn, | 35 |
| “God comes to Judgment. Learn ye what ye are.” | |
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| From fire to umber fades the sunset-gold, | |
| From umber into silver and twilight; | |
| The infant flowers their orisons have told | |
| And turn together folded for the night; | 40 |
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| The garden urns are black against the eve; | |
| The white moth flitters through the fragrant glooms; | |
| How beautiful the heav’ns!—But yet we grieve | |
| And wander restless from the lighted rooms. | |
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| For through the world to-night a murmur thrills | 45 |
| As at some new-born prodigy of time— | |
| Peace dies like twilight bleeding on the hills, | |
| And Darkness creeps to hide the hateful crime. | |
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THE DEATH OF PEACE Art thou no more, O Maiden Heaven-born, | |
| O Peace, bright Angel of the windless morn? | 50 |
| Who comest down to bless our furrow’d fields, | |
| Or stand like Beauty smiling ’mid the corn: | |
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| Mistress of mirth and ease and summer dreams, | |
| Who lingerest among the woods and streams | |
| To help us heap the harvest ’neath the moon, | 55 |
| And homeward laughing lead the lumb’ring teams: | |
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| Who teachest to our children thy wise lore; | |
| Who keepest full the goodman’s golden store; | |
| Who crownest Life with plenty, Death with flow’rs; | |
| Peace, Queen of Kindness—but of earth, no more. | 60 |
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| Not thine but ours the fault, thy care was vain; | |
| For this that we have done be ours the pain; | |
| Thou gavest much, as He who gave us all, | |
| And as we slew Him for it thou art slain. | |
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| Heav’n left to men the moulding of their fate: | 65 |
| To live as wolves or pile the pillar’d State— | |
| Like boars and bears to grunt and growl in mire, | |
| Or dwell aloft, effulgent gods, elate. | |
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| Thou liftedst us: we slew and with thee fell— | |
| From golden thrones of wisdom weeping fell. | 70 |
| Fate rends the chaplets from our feeble brows; | |
| The spires of Heaven fade in fogs of hell. | |
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| She faints, she falls; her dying eyes are dim; | |
| Her fingers play with those bright buds she bore | |
| To please us, but that she can bring no more; | 75 |
| And dying yet she smiles—as Christ on him | |
| Who slew Him slain. Her eyes so beauteous | |
| Are lit with tears shed—not for herself but us. | |
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| The gentle Beings of the hearth and home; | |
| The lovely Dryads of her aislèd woods; | 80 |
| The Angels that do dwell in solitudes | |
| Where she dwelleth; and joyous Spirits that roam | |
| To bless her bleating flocks and fruitful lands; | |
| Are gather’d there to weep, and kiss her dying hands. | |
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| “Look, look,” they cry, “she is not dead, she breathes! | 85 |
| And we have staunched the damnèd wound and deep, | |
| The cavern-carven wound. She doth but sleep | |
| And will awake. Bring wine, and new-wound wreaths | |
| Wherewith to crown awaking her dear head, | |
| And make her Queen again.”—But no, for Peace was dead. | 90 |
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| And then there came black Lords; and Dwarfs obscene | |
| With lavish tongues; and Trolls; and treacherous Things | |
| Like loose-lipp’d Councillors and cruel Kings | |
| Who sharpen lies and daggers subterrene: | |
| And flashed their evil eyes and weeping cried, | 95 |
| “We ruled the world for Peace. By her own hand she died.” | |
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| In secret he made sharp the bitter blade, | |
| And poison’d it with bane of lies and drew, | |
| And stabb’d—O God! the Cruel Cripple slew; | |
| And cowards fled or lent him trembling aid. | 100 |
| She fell and died—in all the tale of time | |
| The direst deed e’er done, the most accursèd crime. | |
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