Poems (Curwen)/The Armenian Horrors
The Armenian Horrors.
QUESTION.
Shall the sword rust in its scabbard, And the cursed assassin reign, While the sod of the purple east grows red With an ever deepening stain? The life-blood of the martyred hosts, By fiends incarnate slain.
Shall our noble ships be idle, While the loud indignant cry For vengeance rings throughout the land, From outraged humanity,—The voice of Christian England,— And still the martyrs die?
Has the arm of the Lord been shortened, And the Almighty ear Grown deaf, that he takes no notice? For God does not seem to hear The cry of His tortured children— "How long shall we suffer here?"
Has the great heart of Old England Grown cowardly, or cold? And have we, a Christian nation, Grown selfish, or less bold, That we do not fling the gauntlet down As we would in days of old?
ANSWER.
The Ship of State is lying near a perilous sea, And has no easy course to steer; but landsmen see Only the smooth, bright waters of the bay, And in their ignorance presume to say The way is clear; but little do they know How near the dangerous under-currents flow. They see no further than the present hour; Know naught of adverse winds, and clouds which lower; But well the gallant captain in command Knows it requires wise head, strong nerve and hand To steer the vessel, for his practised eye Reads coming trouble in the lowering sky. He holds the chart which shows the rocks around, And knows that treacherous shoals and banks abound, And wisely waiteth for a favouring gale Ere he weighs anchor and unfurls his sail, Deeming it far the wiser policy To lose a tide than lose his ship at sea. Rash haste—too oft the father of delay—Heeds not the obstacles that bar the way, Till some fell chance occurs, and then—too late—Wishes he had been less precipitate. Let us not rashly, in our over-zeal. Imperil England and her children's weal; Dear England! who is yet so brave and true, Whose gallant sons still yearn to dare and do. But many blame her, for they cannot see The internal workings of her policy. And this I somehow feel—a higher Power Keeps her subservient in this trying hour; For God has seen and heard, and His Divine Voice crieth: "Stand thou still! Vengeance is Mine."