Classic Poem

Not with more heartfelt joy the warlike bands
Of Albion, spent with long disastrous fray,
Beheld young Tudor cleanse his blood-stain'd hands,
And lead the blooming heir of York away,
'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells.
Then on those tented hills and ravaged dells
The War of Roses died: no more the ray
Of white or red, the fires of hate illumed,
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom'd.