Rutland weekly herald. [volume] (Rutland, Vt.) 1859-1877, 1871-04-13
Tears for the Living-Crape for the
Dead.

And the finger of Time will continue
on for years and years-forever-to point
to the graves of fathers, brothers, sons
friends and foes Sunny France, reveling
in wealth and pleasure-sober Germany,
teeming with peaceful and contented
households-the sombre Fall of death has
wrapped itself around you both, making
you friends in grief if nothing else. Wall,
mother of Lafayette-grieve, ye cottage
households on the hill-sides of the Rhine !
America weeps with you, poor ones, ye
widows, ye orphaned and fstherless !;
weeps because her own sad griefs have
not yet ceased to make her heart throb
and grow large. The echoes of our own
cannon, freighted with wounds, death,
Grape, have hardly ceased to echo back
from the Potomac, and the graves of our
fathers and sons are scarcely yet covered
by the growing turf Our widows yet
grieve, our orphans yet stop their play to
ask for the return of those who will never
come back-who will sleep quietly on for
ever in their narrow graves, only to meet
US in heaven
And we sit in the shadows of the deep
ening twilight, here at our table, letting
the mantle of oblivion fold around US,
even as the pail of death has covered you,
and we muse:
"We see cottage on the hillside, a
little home for husband, wife and babe,
A wear ago, fond father nestled both
in his strong arms, and prayed God that
no march of death should ever bring grief
into his little home. Tonight, the babe
sleeps in its little crib, and the mother s
wild sobs of grief as she bends over 1t,
float to our ears across the great ocean,
float in at our window and find response
in our heart. Grape is on the cottage door,
grief burdens every room like the presence
of gaunt spectre, and the falling tears
wake the babe-wake him but to smile,
for he knows not of the shout, and strug-
gle, and groan, and shot in which his
father sank down to rise no more" Aud
we hear the widow pray:
"Oh God father of me and my babe,
Thou who knowest all things, keep my
poor heart from breaking-keep me but a
little longer, that l may care for the
fatherless boy-that may tell him how,
and where, and when his father died !"
And we muse:
"Oh, King loving war for its pomp
and glory, loving battle for its victory,
dids't ever dream of this funeral pail, this
Grape, these wild sobs, these heart-aches,
these widows and orphansp" And there
is answer to neither prayer or musing.
We see the blackened ruins of village,
see it dimly through the smoke-cloud
fading away to heaven, and there is moth
| ing but desolation and death. Once full
of happy homes and people-now waste,
the blood on the stones and the dead en-
bers marking out the track of war. An
old man walks aimlessly through the de-
serted street, his wrinkled hands pressed
hard to keep back the heavy beating OF
his heart, and he prays:
sour Father which art in heaven
thou who doest all things for Thine own
good-Thou who art with us in war as
we'll as peace-give me back my wife, my
children my sons am old: stand on
the brink of the grave, but my heart
bleeds and suffers, and / call for those
who have been buried meath the tramp of
war, leaving me, poor old man, to wan
der through the ruins of my home J.
And we muse:
sob, Emperor putting out thy hand
to quickly grasp the sword of war, seek
ing more glory and renown; seeking to
burn and kill that thy standards might
gain new honors dids't ever dream of
these ruined homes, this blood-stained
spot, this broken-hearted old man praying
for his murdered kiusman ?"
Aud only the wild wind sweeping DER
the wintry sea gives answer-only the
shadows of the deepening twilight dance
before US as fitting emblems
Oh, war Oh, wounds! Oh, death If
one heart exults that the sounds of battle
have given place to the voice of peace, q
thousand hearts throb and swell at the
memory of Sedan, of Metz, of the score of
other fields where the blood cf Germany
poured out and mingled with the blood of
France; where the dead lay with their
pale, white faces turned to the ghostly
moonlight-where. the wounded tore the
bloody turf with their stiffening fingers
where the victor waved his flag over
1.-The conquest, and said it was Heaven
sent. If king returns home amid the
shouts of thousands, million hearts will
pain and ache at the memory of the son
who comes not back-of the father whose
voice will never be heard-of the friend
who sleeps, so still and peacefully in the
trench with his dead comrades. The flags
NAV wave, the victor cheer, but fearful
ewes will turn toward the border, seeking
to peer through the cloud to the branches
waving above lonely grave-leafess
wintry branohes-lifeless, soulless dead
and the shouts of the victors will be
drowned in the tones of the March winds
coldly kissing the new-made heap of earth
Poor Germany!
Desolate France
And we muse once more
E "May the glad morning of peace break
upon the blood-stained land, hiding the
footprints Of war, covering up the dying
embers, blotting out woe and misery in
, every valley and on every hill side, giving