The tide of things should flow less troubled, sure; To clear its current sages do impart Their wisdom, and the poet's pitying heart Pours in its crystal tribute, bright and pure; But still doth War present a mighty lure To many minds; a charm which lulls to rest Compunctious thought, and mails the obdurate breast With triple-plated iron, to endure The shock of children's cries and woman's tears, Untouch'd, unsoften'd, and without a sigh; O Glory without Honour! Helms and spears School to a ruthless calm the warrior's eye; 'Carnage' he means, when he cries 'Victory', And barren battle hath his hopes and fears! |