THE FLASH OF THE SWORD.
By T. R. Williamson
[Contributed to the SIGNS by the late T. R. Williamson. One of the last poems written by him.] SURE the flash of the sword is a poor, false gleam,
Even when 'tis the scourge of a foe.
Tho millions have thought it a trustworthy beam,
And have cheered at its luster; 'tis but a wild dream
To think joy from its fury can grow. War's flames, leaping up, gild the clouds with their fire.
But they ruin the roof-trees below.
In the roar and the rush of their surges of ire
Lust's lewd demons reel through the soft, bloody mire
That encircles the doorways, aglow. And the high swell of music, the flap of the flags,
With the glint of the weapons that play,
Call the crowds of the earth where war beckons and brags,
Peace men are named cowards, no war-hero lags
When sent into the flame of the fray. There's a time soon to be, let's thank God, you and I,
When the kingdom of glory shall come;
Ne'er a hate-storm shall darken that earth or that sky,
In that kingdom of peace, in the glad by-and-by,
In my fadeless and sorrowless home.