The Battle Autumn Of 1862

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,     The charging trumpets blow;     Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,     No earthquake strives below.     And, calm and patient, Nature keeps     Her ancient promise well,     Though oer her bloom and greenness sweeps     The battles breath of hell.     And still she walks in golden hours     Through harvest-happy farms,     And still she wears her fruits and flowers     Like jewels on her arms.     What mean the gladness of the plain,     This joy of eve and morn,     The mirth that shakes the beard of grain     And yellow locks of corn?     Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,     And hearts with hate are hot;     But even-paced come round the years,     And Nature changes not.     She meets with smiles our bitter grief,     With songs our groans of pain;     She mocks with tint of flower and leaf     The war-fields crimson stain.     Still, in the cannons pause, we hear     Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;     Too near to God for doubt or fear,     She shares the eternal calm.     She knows the seed lies safe below     The fires that blast and burn;     For all the tears of blood we sow     She waits the rich return.     She sees with clearer eye than ours     The good of suffering born,     The hearts that blossom like her flowers,     And ripen like her corn.     Oh, give to us, in times like these,     The vision of her eyes;     And make her fields and fruited trees     Our golden prophecies     Oh, give to us her finer ear     Above this stormy din,     We too would hear the bells of cheer     Ring peace and freedom in.