Some with a pleasant smile,
Foeman with foemen at peace,
Croat, and Frank, and Tyrolese,
All in one ghastly pile,
From the Seine, the Po, and the Land of Song,
Oh, where were the souls of that countless throng?

Gone to the bar of God!
Gone from the battle's din,
Gone with their weight of sin,
To the solemn bar of God!
Woe to ambition and pride!
Woe to the tyrant king
Who dares from his subjects wring
What God has never denied!
Aye, woe to him, for the record stands,
And the blood of the slain is on his hands.




DEAD AND FORGOT.


Dead and forgot!
How sad the lot
When wintry tempests blow
To lie all cold
'Neath the churchyard mould,
And in a year or so