And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is done,
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene,
Thoughts of the tomb; why cannot they assuage
The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down, o'er fields he hath not plough'd.
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd,
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain,
Or tell of cities burning on the plain.
There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze,
Fix'd on his mother's lips, intent to know,
By names of insult, those, whom future days
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe!
There proudly many a glittering dame displays
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow,
By husbands, lovers, home in triumph borne,
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.
