Classic Poem

A spirit touched me as I slept, and said:
" I hear the Host of Desolation choir
The dirge for kingdoms that shall soon expire;
Portents of ill resound, and thunders dread:
Moans of the wounded, prayers for legions dead;
Crash of cathedrals, roar of towns afire;
Reft sweethearts wailing o'er the burial pyre;
And grief of orphans by wan mothers led.

Peace, with her bleeding wings, flew off afar,
Above the oceans dimmed with battle smoke;
I heard her weeping for this world of woe;
" Poor, purblind world," she wept. " Then I awoke,
And, yearning, asked, " Oh, when shall rise His star,
That trembled over Bethlehem long ago? "