Ballad—in the Quizes

What art thou, facinating war, Thou throphied, painted pest, That thus men seek, and they abhor, Pursue, and yet detest? Are Honour and Remorse the same? Does Murder Laurels bring? Is Rapine Glory? Carnage Fame? Flies Crime on Vict'ry's wing? Their wrongs, who never shall return, Their woes, that but survive to mourn E'en when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets strike the ear, Shall from the bravest wrest the sigh, That starts soft Pity's tear.

Where will ambition's folly reach! Sure nature ne'er design'd Her noble gifts an art should teach, To man, to thin his kind! Well they deserve their county's care, In its defence who fight, Who bulwarks of their nation are, Its glory, its delight: Yet for their wrongs, who ne'er return; Their woes, who but survive to mourn, E'en when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets cleave the ear, The truly brave shall heave a sigh, Shall vent kind Pity's tear.

Then do not, for an empty name A phantom thus pursue: Think, that if Glory mark thy fame, Murder shall mark it too. Reason, and Peace, and Love dwell here, And, if for others woe, We heave the sigh, and start the tear, From guilt they never flow. Ah stay, lest thou should'st ne'er return, Lest I should but survive to mourn, Lest when the battle rages high, When to the charge the legions fly, And trumpets cleave the ear, Thy fate demand the generous sigh, And mine the pitying tear.