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George Meredith - At The Close
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To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,
Who straightway sound the call to arms.  Thou know`st;
And that black spot in each embattled host,
Spring of the blood-stream, later wilt reveal.
Now is it red artillery and white steel;
Till on a day will ring the victor`s boast,
That `tis Thy chosen towers uppermost,
Where Thy rejected grovels under heel.
So in all times of man`s descent insane
To brute, did strength and craft combining strike,
Even as a God of Armies, his fell blow.
But at the close he entered Thy domain,
Dear God of Mercy, and if lion-like
He tore the fall`n, the Eternal was his Foe.
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