Tis not because fierce swords are flashing there,
With license and a reckless scorn of life,
When for some petty gaud upstarts a strife,
That Freedom there must harbour. Slavery's air
Breeds many a liveried satrap, prompt to dare,
And soldier-serfs are ready there and rife
To march at summons of the jerking fife.
But where swords—some—are turned to ploughshares;
Others, not rusted, o'er the household hearth,
In peaceful pomp, near cradled babe are hung;
And sires rest reverenced in holy earth,
And marriage-bells with holy cheer are rung,
There Freedom dwells, Constraint's sublime reward.
And Peace must rear her, e'en if War must guard.