And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done,
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene,
Thoughts of the tomb—why cannot they assuage
The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d.
Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd