Classic Poem

THE Ark of God is in the field,
Like clouds around the alien armies sweep;
Each by his spear, beneath his shield,
In cold and dew the anointed warriors sleep.

And can it be thou liest awake,
Sworn watchman, tossing on thy couch of down?
And doth thy recreanTheart not ache
To hear the sentries round the leaguer'd town?

Oh dream no more of quiet life;
Care finds the careless out: more wise to vow
Thine heart entire to Faith's pure strife;
So peace will come, thou know'st not when or how.