The mysery that she can not stay-
While all the gladsome songs she sings
Must bear for undertones
Old sighs and echoed moans.

As they who go away
In flush of youth
May come quite worn and gray
And bringing naught but ruth-
So, when the strife shall cease,
And when she comes at last,
When all the armies vast
Shall at her feet
Kneel down to greet
Thrice welcome Peace,
This world will be so changed
(So many dear ones dead,
So many friends estranged,
So many blessings fled,
So many wonted ways forever barred,
So many coming days forever marred)
That then
She truly comes not back again--
She, the Peace we knew.

Yet how we long for her!
How ardently we yearn
For her return!

SYLVESTER BAXTER