Classic Poem

Still round the world triumphant Discord flies,
Still angry kings to bloody contests rise;
Hosts bright with steel, in dreadful order placed,
And ships contending on the watery waste;
Distracting demons every breast engage,
Unwearied nations glow with mutual rage;
Still to the charge the routed Briton turns,
The war still rages and the battle burns;
See, man with man in deadly combat join,
See, the black navy form the flaming line;
Death smiles alike at battles lost or won —
Art does for him what Nature would have done.
Can scenes like these delight the human breast? —
Who sees with joy humanity distrest?
Such tragic scenes fierce passion might prolong,
But slighted Reason says, they must be wrong,
Cursed be the day, how bright soe'er it shined,
That first made kings the masters of mankind;
And cursed the wretch who first with regal pride
Their equal rights to equal men denied;
But cursed, o'er all, who first to slavery broke,
Submissive bowed, and owned a monarch's yoke:
Their servile souls his arrogance adored
And basely owned a brother for a lord;
Hence wrath, and blood, and feuds, and wars began,
And man turned monster to his fellow man.
Not so that age of innocence and ease
When men, yet social, knew no ills like these;
Then dormant yet, Ambition (half unknown)
No rival murdered to possess a throne;
No seas to guard, no empires to defend —
Of some small tribe the father and the friend.
The hoary sage beneath his sylvan shade
Imposed no laws but those which reason made;
On peace, not war; on good, not ill, intent,
He judged his brethren by their own consent;
Untaught to spurn those brethren to the dust;
In virtue firm, and obstinately just,
For him no navies roved from shore to shore,
No slaves were doomed to dig the glittering ore;
Remote from all the vain parade of state,
No slaves in scarlet sauntered at his gate,
Nor did his breast the angry passions tear,
He knew no murder, and he felt no fear.
Was this the patriarch sage — Then turn your eyes
And view the contrast that our age supplies;
Touched from the life, we trace no ages fled,
We draw no curtain that conceals the dead;
To distant Britain let the view be cast,
And say, the present far exceeds the past;
Of all the plagues that e'er the world have cursed,
Name George, the tyrant, and you name the worst!
What demon, hostile to the human kind,
Planted these fierce disorders in the mind?
All, urged alike, one phantom we pursue,
But what has war with human kind to do?
In death's black shroud our bliss can ne'er be found;
'Tis madness aims the life-destroying wound,
Sends fleets and armies to these ravaged shores
Plots constant ruin, but no peace restores.
O dire ambition! — thee these horrors suit:
Lost to the human, she assumes the brute;
She, proudly vain, or insolently bold,
Her heart revenge, her eye intent on gold,
Swayed by the madness of the present hour
Lays worlds in ruin for extent of power ;
That shining bait, which dropt in folly's way
Tempts the weak mind, and leads the heart astray.
Thou happiness! still sought but never found,
We, in a circle, chace thy shadow round;
Meant all mankind in different forms to bless,
Which, yet possessing, we no more possess:
Thus far removed and painted on the eye
Smooth verdant fields seem blended with the sky,
But where they both in fancied contact join
In vain we trace the visionary line;
Still, as we chace, the empty circle flies,
Emerge new mountains, or new oceans rise.