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The Plough-man following sad his meagre team
Turn'd up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there
All mingled lay beneath the common earth,
Death's gloomy reconcilement! O'er the Fields
Stept a fair form, repairing all she might,
Her temples olive-wreath'd; and where she trod,
Fresh flowrets rose, and many a foodful herb.
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure,
And anxious pleasure beam'd in her faint eye,
As she had newly left a couch of pain,
Pale Convalescent! (Yet some time to rule
With power exclusive o'er the willing world,
That blest prophetic mandate then fulfill'd,
Peace be on Earth!) An happy while, but brief,
She seem'd to wander with assiduous feet,
And heal'd the recent harm of chill and blight,
And nurs'd each plant that fair and virtuous grew.
But soon a deep precursive sound moan'd hollow:
Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a dream)
Their reddening shapes, transform'd to Warrior-hosts,
Cours'd o'er the Sky, and battled in mid-air.
Nor did not t'he large blood-drops fall from Heaven
Portentous! while aloft were seen to float,
