IN FRENCH FIELDS.
121
While your hands glide softly over my head,
It seems as if the cloud, charged with tempests dread,
Trembles and flies far off with hollow moan,
And that God sends down from his holy throne
To the Queen of cities, girdled with towers
And ramparts, from which the fierce cannon lowers,
Disabled, and ready to sink like a bark
Under a sea heaving wildly and dark,
Amid clamour, and terror, and outcry wild,
A blessing of Peace, by the hand of a child.
