What need of yon stern things to shew
That darker deeds have oft been done?--
Is't not enough for Man to know
He lives but through the blood of ONE!
And thou, mild delegate of God,
Whose words of balm, and guiding light.
Would lead us, from earth's drear abode,
To worlds with bliss for ever bright,--
What have the spoils of mortal fight
To do with themes 'tis thine to teach?
Faith's saving grace--each sacred rite
Thou know'st to practice as to preach!
The blessings of the contrite heart,
Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim;
The tears from sinners' eyes that start,
Are meetest records of thy fame.
The glory that may grace thy name
From loftier triumphs sure must spring;--
The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,
Trophies like these can never bring!
Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,
With peace and love, and hope imbued,--
Some vision calm of bliss to blot,
And turn our thoughts on deeds of blood,--
Should signs of battle-fields intrude:--
Man wants no trophies here of strife;
His Oriflamme--Faith unsubdued;--
His Panoply--a spotless life!
* * * * *
THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG.
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