Poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell

Good-Night in War-Time

   (To Alexander Smith)

The stars we saw arise are high above,
And yet our Evensong seems sung too soon.
Good-Night! I lay my hand-with such a love
As thou wert brother of my blood-upon
Thy shoulder, and methinks beneath the moon
Those sisters, Anglia and Caledon,
Lean towards each other. Aye, for Man is one;
We are a host ruled by one trumpet-call,
Where each, armed in his sort, makes as he may
The general motion. The well-tuned array
We see; yet to what victory in what wars
We see not; but like the revolving stars
Move on ourselves. The total march of all
Or men or stars God knows. Lord, lead us on! 

1. The Army Surgeon
2. The Market-Wife's Song
3. Under Especial Blessing
4. On the Death of Mrs. Browning
5. To the Authoress of

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