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39. our country's cause.

by Mrs. M. J. M. Sweat.
War's cruel ploughshare cleaves the land,
     In furrows wide and deep;
Each furrow is a hallowed grave,
     Where our loved heroes sleep.
But costly seed we're planting now,
     In weariness and pain,
Shall, at the harvest-time, bring forth
     Fair fields of priceless grain.

Our hearts are saddened by the sight
     Of sick and wounded men;
It seems as if God's summer air
     Could ne'er be pure again.
But side by side with war's dark sins
     Man's noblest virtues shine,
And woman's sweet compassion beams
     With lustre half divine.

Sweet mother earth, with tender care,
     Covers her wounds with flowers,
And we would learn her loving art
     For these deep wounds of ours.
For though our tears fall sadly now,
     They, like the summer rain,
May bring rich blessings for the time
     When sunshine comes again.

Only for thee, dear native land,
     Could we thus bear our woe;
Only for thee, see, day by day,
     Our brave men thus laid low.
But though our griefs must inly bleed
     Through many a coming year,
Each sorrow makes our country's cause
     To patriot hearts more dear.

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