Classic Poem

Scarce had they closed this martial lay
When, flinging their light spears away,
The combatants, in broken ranks,
All breathless from the war-field fly;
And down upon the velvet banks
And flowery slopes exhausted lie,
Like rosy huntresses of Thrace,
Resting at sunset from the chase.

" Fond girls! " an aged Zean said —
One who himself had fought and bled,
And now with feelings half delight,
Half sadness, watched their mimic fight —
" Fond maids! who thus with War can jest —
" Like Love in Mar's helmet drest,
" When, in his childish innocence,
" Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,
" He thinks not of the blood that thence
" Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
" Ay — true it is, young patriot maids,
" If Honor's arm still won the fray,
" If luck but shone on righteous blades,
" War were a game for gods to play!
" But, no, alas! — hear one, who well
" Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave —
" Hear me , in mournful ditty, tell
" What glory waits the patriot's grave: "