ACELDAMA DR. GEORGE F. BUTLER

STILL breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care And labor of the world; hushed is the grove, And overhead the vireo’s note of love Floats like a joyful utterance of prayer. Soft insect murmurs fill the enchanted air. Into a fairer day earth seems to move, And statelier thoughts lift mortal sense above Life’s sin and pain; the sorrow and despair. But hark! where now the noonday beams are shed In sorrowing Europe, trembles a sound Of thunder, and the land with dews of blood Is drenched; while o’er the dying and the dead Fate turns to weep o’er every pleading wound— Can earth o’ercome the evil with the good? But yesterday two monarchs, held in check Like bloodhounds in the leash, broke forth before The eyes of Christendom, and in the roar Of lurid conflict heard not the wild shriek Of outraged millions—now again the wreck Of crushed humanity must strew death’s shore With ghastly ruin crying evermore, “Shame! Wretch of mortal form and vulture’s beak— To ask God’s aid and Christ’s! O, hour of woe! Cover, O night of ages, the dread birth Of man’s Imperial hate! Let kings go down That peoples may aspire and live and own A holier stature, and this crimsoned earth Drink the pure light of Freedom’s afterglow!”