Classic Poem

I.

Say not our hands are cruel,
What deeds invite the blame?
Content our golden jewel,
No blemish on our name:
Creation's lords
We need no swords
To win a withering fame.

II.

Say not in gore and guile
We waste the livelong day:
Let those alone revile
Who feel our subtile sway,
When fancy-led
The sward we tread
And while the morn away.

III.

Oh! not in camp or court
Our best delights we find,
But in the far resort
With water, wood, and wind,
Where Nature works
And beauty lurks
In all her craft enshrined.

IV.

There captive to her will,
Yet 'mid our fetters free,
We seek by singing rill
The broad and shady tree,
And lisp our lay
To flower and fay,
Or mock the linnet's glee.

V.

Thus glides the golden hour,
Until the chimes to toil
Recall from brook and bower;
Then, laden with our spoil,
Slowly we part
With heavy heart
And leave the haunted soil.