Classic Poem

What heavenly form, with nameless beauty grac'd,
Tho' horror turns her cheek of roses pale,
And her hair floats, disorder'd, to the gale,
Flies with the winged step of trembling haste,
Nor stops to tell the winds her dismal tale?—
'Tis gentle Peace!—Alas! she smiles no more!
No more with harmony her grove resounds;
But Ocean bids his loudest cannons roar,
And shrill in air the angry trumpet sounds,
Whilst Fame her banner spreads—its dazzling pow'r
Calls to her valiant sons to meet the foe,
Trusting in Him who lays the mighty low!
And gives to Victory its triumphant hour;—
Whose potent Arm the battle must maintain,
And ev'n may yield sweet Peace her charms again!