Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/154

Rh 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.