The Voice Of Blood Poem by Janet Hamilton

'The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.'


In the valley, on the mountain,
From the swamp, the lake, the fountain,
From the ocean, from the river,
The voice of blood is sounding ever.


In Columbian forest's shadow,
On the plain, the field, the meadow,
The purple current ceaseth never-
The voice of blood is sounding ever.


China, land misnamed Celestial,
Where they slaughter men like bestial,
Thousand heads at once they sever-
Blood! that voice is sounding ever.


Down Circassia's rocks and hills,
Patriot blood, in crimson rills,
Gusheth on, and ceaseth never-
Blood! still blood! it cries for ever.


Poland, in 'the book of time,'
Darker deeds of blood and crime
Wrought on thee, were written never-
Thy blood! thy tears! they cry for ever.


'The weeping blood in woman's heart,'
I give thee, Denmark-ah! thou art
A mark on which the robber's quiver
Is spent.-Must we confer for ever?


Round the dark horizon sweep
With thine eye-stern vigil keep;
Fresh storm-signals flash and quiver,
War and blood foretelling ever.


Why for ever courting France?
When we pipe she will not dance;
Oft I fear our paths will sever-
Follow in her wake!-no, never!


Soon the brazen trump of war,
With startling clangour from afar,
May wake our shores-make Europe broad
One battle-field-forbid it, God!