Classic Poem

He drew it home—he heaved it to the bank—
No modern waif, but an old Roman targe;
The mild familiar swan in terror shrank
From the rude plash, and left the weltering marge.
Low rang the iron boss; the fisher stared
At his new capture, while, in mystic tones,
The lost shield call'd its legion, whose death-groans
And clash of onset it had seen and heard.
Oh! when shall better thoughts be dear to man,
Than rapine and ambition, fraud and hate?
Oh! when shall War, like this old buckler, fall
Into disuse, drown'd by its own dead weight?
And Commerce, buoyant as the living swan,
Push boldly to the shore, the friend of all?