Classic Poem

A DOWN a lane, with trees embower'd.
A musing hour to pass,
Where bloom'd the dainty violets
Like blue eyes in the grass,
I turn'd one evening, when the light
Was fading into grey,
And to his nest the forest bird
Was wheeling on his way.

Close by some stone steps and a gate,
Not far from Falmouth town,
A clear stream, from a cannon's mouth,
Was sweetly purling down,
I stood to view this watercourse
In old Trevethan lane,
Which murmur'd from the iron gun,
And flow'd along the plain.

Perchance, by some old bark 't was borne
Across the 'whelming tide;
Or, hewn from some strong battery's breast,
The haughty conqueror's pride;
Perchance, it has a history strange,
As most of its compeers,
Whose actions might be graved in blood,
And steep'd in human tears.

And as I gazed, methought, a voice
Rose from the gentle rill,
" The time will come when cannons all,
Like this, shall cease to kill;
When hissing shot, and shrieking shell,
Shall never more be hurl'd;
And sweetly shall the tide of peace
Flow over all the world.

" O what a clime of happiness
Our jarring globe will be
When every gun in every place
Is laid as low as thee;
When not a missile more is driven
Against the brow of love,
And dwells the human brotherhood
As angels do above! "