The Peace Advocate
by H.P. Lovecraft
(Supposed to be a "pome," but cast strictly in modern metre)
The vicar sat in the firelight's glow,
A volume in his hand,
And a tear he shed for the widespread woe,
And the anguish brought by the vicious foe
That overran the land.
But never a hand for his King raised he,
For he was a man of peace;
And he car'd not a whit for the victory
That must come to preserve his nation free,
And the world from fear release.
His son had buckled on his sword,
The first at the front was he.
But the vicar his valiant child ignor'd
And his noble deeds in the field deplor'd,
For he knew not bravery.
On his flock he strove to fix his will,
And lead them to scorn the fray.
He told them that conquest brings but ill;
That meek submission would serve them still
To keep the foe away.
In vain did he hear the bugle's sound
That strove to avert the fall.
The land, quoth he, is all men's ground,
What matter if friend or foe be found
As master of us all?
One day from the village green hard by
The vicar heard a roar
Of cannon that rival'd the anguish'd cry
Of the hundreds that liv'd but wish'd to die
As the enemy rode them o'er.
Now he sees his own cathedral shake
At the foemen's wanton aim.
The ancient towers with the bullets quake;
The steeples fall, the foundations break,
And the whole is lost in flame.
Up the vicarage lane file the cavalcade,
And the vicar, and daughter, and wife
Scream out in vain for the needed aid
That only a regiment ...
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