Classic Poem

How green the earth, how blue the sky,
—How pleasant all the days that pass,
Here where the British settlers lie
—Beneath their cloaks of grass!

Here ancient peace resumes her round,
—And rich from toil stand hill and plain;
Men reap and store; but they sleep sound,
—The men who sowed the grain.

Hard to the plough their hands they put,
—And wheresoe'er the soil had need
The furrow drave, and underfoot
—They sowed themselves for seed.

Ah! not like him whose hand made yield
—The brazen kine with fiery breath,
And over all the Colchian field
—Strewed far the seeds of death;

Till, as day sank, awoke to war
—The seedlings of the dragon's teeth,
And death ran multiplied once more
—Across the hideous heath.

But rich in flocks be all these farms,
—And fruitful be the fields which hide
Brave eyes that loved the light, and arms
—That never clasped a bride!

O willing hearts turned quick to clay,
—Glad lovers holding death in scorn,
Out of the lives ye cast away
—The coming race is born.