Still grasp the falchion of horrid hue,

And though their fallen brethren from the ground

May seem to call for Vengeance from their hands,

The impulse of Revenge is felt no more;

No more the strange attire, the foreign tongue

Creates alarm: for Nature's-self has writ

In every face; where every eye can read

Repentant Sorrow, and forgiving Love.

Their mingled tears wash the lamented dead:

On every wound they pour soft Pity's balm:

Ere Sorrow's tears are dried, they feel the spring

Of new-born joys, and each expanding heart

Contemplates future scenes of Peace and Love.

  Long, even as long as room and food abound,

They interchange their friendly offices

For mutual good; reciprocally kind:

And much they wonder that they e'er were foes.

Still War's terrific name is kept alive:

Tradition, pointing to the rusty arms

That hang on high, informs each list'ning youth

 Prev. P 24/79 next