Classic Poem

Lo! Time hath soothed the headland with its green;
The olden fortress crumbles on the steep;
Far off the dim sea lies in halcyon sleep,
Forgetting all the slaughter it hath seen.
Here, with her child the mother rests serene,
Where languid Evening folds her drowsy sheep;
Here Peace abides, as when, in cloisters deep,
The latria rises round the Nazarene.

Lands where our rugged forbears first drew breath!
In this red slaughter, this, your hour extreme,—
We pray for peace from out the North and South:
When shall be sheathed the crimson blade of Death?
When shall the lambs—as in the painter's dream—
Nibble the blossoms from the cannon's mouth?