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.
