O THAT this weary war of life
With me were o'er,
Its eager cry of wo and strife
Heard never more!
I've fronted the red battle field
Mine own dark day;
I fain would fling the helmet, shield,
And sword away.
I strive not now for victory—
That wish hath fled;
My prayer is now to numbered be
Among the dead—
All that I loved, alas!—alas!
Hath perished!

They tell me 'tis a glorious thing,
This wearing war;
They tell me joy crowns suffering
And bosom scar.
Such a speech might never pass the lips
That could unfold
How shrinketh heart when sorrow nips
Affections old:
When they who cleaved to us are dust,
Why live to moan?
Better to meet a felon thrust
Than strive alone—
Better than loveless palaces
The churchyard stone!