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 called 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, drowned by its own dead weight? And Commerce, buoyant as the living swan, Push boldly to the shore, the friend of all? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD TO HIS SICK GRANDFATHER by JOANNA BAILLIE SHRODON FEAR: THE REST O'T by WILLIAM BARNES BRYANT'S BIRTHPLACE by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY by JOHN BEAUMONT LINES FROM A NOTEBOOK - MAY 1810 by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |