To Our President
HOPE of the Nations, lift thy stricken heart.
Thyself art Sorrow, and to thee the cry
Of battle-anguish comes more piercingly
Than even in those months of sneer and smart,
When thou so steadfastly didst bear thy part,
True Champion of Peace. And now, when high
The war-storm rages, when horne's darlings die
By mangled thousands, lift thy stricken heart
For a white shield of mercy, torch that throws
Its reconciling gleam across the seas.
O thou in love and grief pre-eminent,
Divine shall be thy comfort to appease
These bleeding Christian armies, sudden foes
That slaughter in a fierce astonishment.
