Classic Poem

Hail sacred Peace! When thus thy sovereign word
Bids hostile Nations sheath the slaughtering sword,
Glad sees the Swain the curling vapours rise,
While altars blaze, and incense fills the skies:
No more at midnight scar'd with dire alarms,
Pale watchmen rouse the slumbering Youth to arms:
The lance imbrown'd with rust, and rough with gore,
Flames in the ruddy van of War no more:
In idle helms, and mails of alter'd hue
Well-pleas'd the Spider spreads her subtle clue:
To fighting toils athletic sports succeed,
And to the trumpet's clang the rural reed:
Love, Laughter, Wine the fleeting hours employ,
The dance of triumph, and the song of joy.