Classic Poem

Who was the first that forg'd the deadly blade?
Of rugged steel his savage soul was made:
By him, his bloody flag ambition wav'd;
And grisly carnage through the battle rav'd.
Yet wherefore blame him? we're ourselves to blame;
Arms first were forg'd to kill the savage game:
Death-dealing battles were unknown of old;
Death-dealing battles took their rise from gold:
When beachen bowls on oaken tables stood,
When temperate acorns were our fathers' food;
The swain slept peaceful with his flocks around,
No trench was open'd, and no fortress frown'd.
Oh! had I liv'd in gentle days like these,
To love devoted, and to home-felt ease;
Compell'd I had not been those arms to wear,
Nor had the trumpet forc'd me from the fair:
But now I'm drag'd to war, perhaps my foe
E'en now prepares the' inevitable blow!
Come then, paternal gods, whose help I've known
From birth to manhood, still protect your own:
Nor blush, my gods, though carv'd of ancient wood;
So carv'd in our forefathers' times you stood:
And though in no proud temples you were prais'd,
Nor foreign incense on your altars blaz'd;
Yet white-rob'd faith conducted every swain;
Yet meek-ey'd piety seren'd the plain;
While clustering grapes, or wheat-wreaths round your hair,
Appeas'd your anger, and engag'd your care;
Or dulcet cakes himself the farmer paid,
When crown'd his wishes by your powerful aid;
While his fair daughter brought with her from home
The luscious offering of a honey-comb:
If now you'll aid me in the hour of need,
Your care I'll recompense — a boar shall bleed.
In white array'd, I'll myrtle baskets bear,
And myrtle foliage round my temples wear:
In arms redoubtable let others shine,
By Mars protected, mow the martial line;
You let me please; my head with roses crown,
And every care in flowing goblets drown:
Then, when I'm joyous, let the soldier tell,
What foes were captur'd, and what leaders fell;
Or on the board describe with flowing wine,
The furious onset, and the flying line.
For reason whispers, " Why will short-liv'd man
By war contract his too contracted span?"
Yet when he leaves the cheerful realms of light,
No laughing bowls, no harvests cheer the sight;
But howl the damn'd, the triple monster roars,
And Charon grumbles on the Stygian shores:
By fiery lakes the blasted phantoms yell,
Or shrowd their anguish in the depths of hell.
In a thatch'd cottage happier he, by far,
Who never hears of arms, of gold, or war;
His chaste embrace a numerous offspring crown,
He courts not fortune's smile, nor dreads her frown;
While lenient baths at home his wife prepares,
He, and his sons, attend their fleecy cares:
As old, as poor, as peaceful may I be,
So guard my flocks, and such an offspring see.
Meantime, soft peace, descend: — O! bless our plains!
Soft peace to plough with oxen taught the swains.
Peace plants the orchard, and matures the vine,
And first gay-laughing press'd the ruddy wine;
The father quaffs, deep quaff his joyous friends,
Yet to his son a well-stor'd vault descends.
Bright shine the ploughshare, our support and joy;
But rust, deep rust, the veteran's arms destroy.
The villager (his sacred offerings paid
In the dark grove, and consecrated shade),
His wife and sons, now darkness parts the throng,
Drives home, and whistles, as he reels along.
Then triumphs Venus; then love-feuds prevail;
The youth all jealous then the fair assail;
Doors, windows fly; no deference they pay,
The chastest suffer in the' ungentle fray:
These beat their breasts, and melt in moving tears;
The lover weeps, and blames his rage and fears;
Love sits between, unmov'd with tears and sighs,
And with incentives sly the feud supplies.
Ye youths, though stung with taunts, of blows beware;
They, they are impious, who can beat the fair:
If much provok'd, or rend their silken zone,
Or on their tresses be your anger shown:
But if nor this your passion can appease,
Until the charmer weep, the charmer tease.
Bless'd anger, if the fair dissolves in tears!
Bless'd youth, her fondness undisguis'd appears!
But crush the wretch, O War! with all thy woes,
Who to rough usage adds the crime of blows.
Bland peace, descend, with plenty on our plains,
And bless with case and laughing sport the swains.