LESSON 10
PROSPICE

The ancient and the lovely land

Is sown with death; across the plain

Ungarnered now the orchards stand,

The Maxim nestles in the grain,

The shrapnel spreads a stinging flai

Where pallid nuns the cloister trod,

The airship spills her leaden hail;

But—after all the battles—God.

Athwart the vineyard’s ordered banks,

Silent the red rent forms recline,

And from their stark and speechless ranks

There flows a richer, ruddier wine

While down the lane and through the wall

The victors writhe upon the sod,

Nor heed the onward bugle call;

But—after all the bugles—God.

By night the blazing cities flar

Like mushroom torches in the sky;

The rocking ramparts tremble ere

The sullen cannon boom reply,

And shattered is the temple spire,

The vestment trampled on the clod,

And every altar black with fire

But after all the altars—God.

And all the prizes we have won

Are buried in a deadly dust;

The things we set our hearts upon

Beneath the stricken earth are thrust;

Again the Savage greets the sun,

Again his feet, with fury shod,

Across a world in anguish run;

But—after all the anguish—God.

The grim campaign, the gun, the sword,

The quick volcano from the sea,

The honour that reveres the word,

The sacrifice, the agon—

These be our heritage and pride,

Till the last despot kiss the rod,

And, with man’s freedom purified

We mark—behind our triumph—God.

— Alan Sullivan VQ3orL7smMGb9GI7iqKRoYndqm6vdlkoy9jMywEdR5HHMZ7JBnMywEL2AO298ge7