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THE SONG OF THE SOWER.
61
III.
Fling wide the golden shower; we trust
The strength of armies to the dust,
This peaceful les may haply yield
Its harvest for the tented field.
Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,
As o'er them, in the yellow grains,
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill
For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;
Such as, on Solferino's day,
Slaked the brown sand and flowed away;—
Flowed till the herds, on Mineio's brink,
Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink;—
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie,
On the sad earth, as time grows gray,
When men by deadlier arts shall die,
And deeper darkness blot the sky
Above the thundering fray;
And realms, that hear the battle cry,
Shall sicken with dismay;
Fling wide the golden shower; we trust
The strength of armies to the dust,
This peaceful les may haply yield
Its harvest for the tented field.
Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,
As o'er them, in the yellow grains,
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill
For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;
Such as, on Solferino's day,
Slaked the brown sand and flowed away;—
Flowed till the herds, on Mineio's brink,
Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink;—
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie,
On the sad earth, as time grows gray,
When men by deadlier arts shall die,
And deeper darkness blot the sky
Above the thundering fray;
And realms, that hear the battle cry,
Shall sicken with dismay;