25
Our bleeding country bears, and then to find
No balm in Gilead—no physician there,
Is more than torture. Hence! away, ye sounds
Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh,
Your melody discordant; for the heart
Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much,
Look to the heights of Queenston; see the plains
Where bleach the bones of valour; hear the voice
Of treachery false-hearted; hear the tones
Of jarring counsels; hear the widow's wail!
Look where the troubled skies are red, with light
Of flaming villages—and meteors wild
Glare o'er the darken'd concave!
Who are these,
That from their cold and humid beds arise?
The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled,
When war was righteous, and they slept in peace.
Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits,
And hollow voices on the midnight blast
Tell of disgrace and death.—But do you say
These are the visions of a fearful mind?
And you are still for war? Then sound the charge,
Urge on the combat—bid the battle rage—
The victim bleed—the lonely orphan mourn.
If deeds like these delight you, take your fill,
And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain.
Since war you love, then arm you for the fight,
Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw
