John Critchley Prince Poems

The people of our Christian land
Have cause to bless the men who planned
That place of gentle power and rule,
The noble British Sunday School
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To a region of song and of sunnier day,
The battle-host wended its wearisome way,
Through the terrible Splugen's tenebrious gloom,
That seemed to lead on to the portals of doom.
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It is well that beauteous woman
Has the quickest sense of wrong;
That the tenderest traits of feeling
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Once more to visit a distracted world,
The spirit of sweet Peace comes trembling down,
As war's ensanguined flag is newly furled
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Oh! the Songs of the People are voices of power
That echo in many a land;
They lighten the heart in the sorrowful hour,
And quicken the labour of hand;
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My heart was galled with bitter wrong,
Revengeful feelings fired my blood;
I cherished hate with passion strong,
While round my couch dark demons stood.
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The poet sings of many things
In lands, and seas, and skies,
As Fancy's many-coloured wings
Flutter before his eyes;
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Strive on, brave souls, and win your way
By energy and care,
Waste not one portion of the day
In languor or despair;
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When the night cometh round, and our duties are done,
And a calm stealeth over the breast,
When the bread that is needful is honestly won,
And our worldly thoughts nestle to rest,—
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It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring
Leapt o'er the lea, while clustering round her feet
Sprang buds and blossoms, beautiful and sweet,
And her glad voice made wood and welkin ring.
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