By Charles Sangster



     The Plague of War is stayed.
God’s brightest Angel has stretched forth his hand,
And like a blessed light, from land to land
     Glides Peace, the mild-eyed maid.

     From th’ sunny realm of France,


To England, chosen Mistress of the Sea,
O’er Russia’s Northern Steppes, she moves, to free
     War’s satyrs from their dance. [Page 235]

     With voices jubilant,
And trembling lips, that burn with earnest prayer,


A million whispers, rising through the air,
     Storm heaven with a chant

     Of joy and thankfulness.
And human life is sacred, now, once more:
The fame of Inkerman, of Alma’s shore,


     Of Balaklava’s wild excess,

     Sufficeth us at last.
War with its brazen tongue! Peace with its smile!
Peace shedding halos over Briton’s isle,
     War slumbering with the past.


     How long?—a single breath
May rouse the monster from his lair to-morrow.
And he allied with us in joy and sorrow,
     Strew England’s shores with death.

     “In peace prepare for war.”—


Time-honored maxim of an honored chief;
The gallic eagle’s slumbers may be brief;
     Let England’s hearths beware. [Page 236]