Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/423



this weary war of life With me were o'er, Its eager cry of wo and strife Heard never more! I've fronted the red battle field Mine own dark day; I fain would fling the helmet, shield, And sword away. I strive not now for victory— That wish hath fled; My prayer is now to numbered be Among the dead— All that I loved, alas!—alas! Hath perished!

They tell me 'tis a glorious thing, This wearing war; They tell me joy crowns suffering And bosom scar. Such speech might never pass the lips That could unfold