Doth yonder Northern storm its lightnings dart
To wither e'en the minstrel's garland green?
Hath Poetry become a coward's art,
And only sword and lance fresh honours glean?
Must poets, clothed with shame, far hence depart
While warlike hosts advance their weapons keen?
May not the harper, as i' the olden tide,
E'en through the hostile camp, full welcome, stride?
Must Poetry in wood and cave abide
Till War disturbs no more the nations' rest?
Till all volcanic fires have waned and died
That can be nurtured in the earth's deep breast?
If so—no song hath ever yet been tried,
Nor e'er can be in future times expressed.
No! lasting peace, with dews of song endowed,
Broods o'er long warfare like a golden cloud.

Each thing of earth its season doth possess;
But song within the heart hath alway power,
As lasting in exalted nobleness
As in deep love and every generous dower.
As lasting in its gloom of deep distress
As in its mirthful sports and joy's bright flower.
Though rolls the thunder—tho' the whirlwinds scream,
The sun stands steadfast and the stars yet beam.

While hosts prepare their murderous trade to ply,
Fair spring prepares herself for mirth and play;
The drums are beat, the startling trumpets cry,
While winter's storms aside their fury lay.
Fierce war would seek the earth with blood to dye,
That decks herself with many a bud and spray.
If thus the earthly spring fair buds displays,
Let Poetry's fair spring put forth her lays.