_WINTER SCENE._
The pale lovely moon o'er the Lowthers was rising
As lonely I strayed at the fall of the night
Away to the far-stretching Ridge of Glengonar,
The high hills to view in their mantle of white.
Old Boreas had swept them for days in his anger,
As though he would crush them beneath his proud sway;
But grandly they stood, with their brows high uplifted,
Firm based in majestic, eternal array.
Then thoughts did arise as I gazed on the scene
That lay bathed in the silvery light of the moon
Of Flanders' torn fields that were once fair and fertile,
Made barren and shrouded in sorrow and gloom;
Of men who went forth in the pride of their manhood,
Aroused, by the call that appeals to the brave,
Inspired by the noblest and purest of motives,
Who fell on the field or were sunk 'neath the wave.
I stood all alone on the Ridge of Glengonar,
Alone 'neath the stars that shone bright in the blue;
And prayed to the Ruler of men and of nations
To strengthen the arms of our gallant and true;
To silence for ever the roar of the cannon
And sink in oblivion this era of pain,
That in peace we might live in the land of our fathers
'Neath harmony, love, and prosperity's reign.