Where no harsh, workaday sound invades
The Sabbath rest of the solemn shades;
A Paradise of peace!
But oh! it’s a different thing when one knows,
That each bush is an ambush concealing one’s foes;
When the sweet flowers are choked by the sulphurous breath
Of the musket whose mouth is the portal of death;
When instead of the song of the frolicsome bird,
Shots, shrieks, yells and curses alone can be heard;
Then the streamlet’s sweet tinkle seems changed to a knell,