DECEMBER SIXTH, 1917.

It was a clear and cool December dawn, And bright the Sun in all his glory rose And shed his radiant rays in plenty on The lovely arm which by our city flows, And on the hills and dales and distant trees By Nature robed in early winter mien: All Labour was awake; the docks and quays Were all astir and formed a busy scene; The flag flung to the breeze o’er Citadel Gave heart to all: last night the sentry cried, As o’er his beat he trod, that all was well, And old and young thought but of Christmas-tide. “Lord God of Hosts,” what is that awful roar Upon all ears rolls from the Richmond shore;

I’ll ever hear that death-portending sound And see the dead as side by side they lie, And see the desolation wrought around And hear the dying’s dissolution cry; And see the houses bursting into flame And those within consumed in tongues of fire, And that long line of young, and old, and lame Move slowly on when ordered to retire From their wrecked homes to seek some safe retreat. With falt’ring step and slow and wearied gait; And see the motor cars whirl down the street Full laden with their bloody, human freight: For not, till in my breast the spirit dies Will these sad scenes evanish from my eyes.

And ever see the op’ning hour of school, And hear the bell sound on the morning air, And see each little one with reticule And well-trained poise and step assembling there, And each pale-faced teacher in her place And all the children there on bended knees, With innocence imprinted on each face, And hear their prayer borne on the morning breeze, And hear the glass and falling timbers crash, And see the children through the windows leap With blood fast flowing from each gaping gash Upon their heads and faces, long and deep; And fain am I to fall into despair That scenes so sad should follow children’s prayer.

And ever see the blinded lying low At Bellevue, Camp Hill, and College Hall; And ever see the corpses, row on row, Their mangled faces covered with a pall: And curses such as tongue could never speak Rise in my heart and flutter through my mind Upon the man who did such ruin wreak And leave such grief and misery behind; And then a change comes o’er my angry thought And I can see outlined upon the Cross The Man of Sorrows, and I think of what He did that Death be not our loss; And bowing down I cry on bended knee My Lord, my God, I yet have faith in Thee.