Classic Poem

Peace , the one-time radiant goddess,
Now sits bent with heavy sorrow;
For the wicked war-troll, snatching
From its crib her lovely infant,
Left another brat as changeling,
Cross, claw-fingered, and mis-shapen,
Thirsting after blood and tear-streams,
Hungering, too, for death and ravage.
Peace, ah woe is thee, poor mother!

These two courses hast thou, goddess:
Fling the troll-child from its cradle,
Leave it on the public highway,
Let it grow into a savage,
Free from all restraint of nurture
Till it gains the strength of manhood;
Or adopt it to your bosom,
Take it to your mother bosom!

Yield not to the fit of anger,
But caress the changeling infant,
Tame it, Peace, with kind thoughts tame it,
Mould its nature with your mildness,
Till it lose its claws and tushes,
And at last some radiant morning
Be transformed into the lost one
And you sit there, blind with gladness,
With your own child in your bosom.