The thunder has its lull from riot,
The morning storm its evening quiet;
The raving and rebellious ocean
Its crystal calm, its rest from motion;
The avalanche its silence, when
That thundering ball has rock'd the glen;
The purple simoom its light tread,
When prostrate caravans lie dead;
The earthquake, its still under-tone,
Its whispers of the murders done.
And battle - which, in the wide fall
Of nations, blends the rage of all,
Its hush of passions, and the sleep
Of energies once strong and deep.

The earthquake shout, which shook yon hill
Of pines, is over; all is still,
Save the cry of the still gale,
Sad as the shrieking spirit's wail;
Save the wild-birds' flapping wings,
Now fluttering over lifeless things;
Save the lone gush of mountain springs,
And clamour of cascades that leap,
Stainless, from their aerial sleep;
But rolling redly from the plain
Where lie the proud and mighty slain:
Rigid and nerveless every hand,
That grasp'd the battle-axe and brand:

Pallid each brow, each glazed eye set,
But scowling fierce defiance yet;
The fiery heart of former years,
With all its wishes, hopes, and fears,
Its pride, its pain, its might, its mirth,
A pulseless ball of wasting earth.
The plume and scarf, by beauty woven,
Daggled in blood, the helmet cloven;
The pennons proud of yesterday,
Borne by the gallant and the gay,
In life's last agony resign'd,
Forlornly waving in the wind.
Another's harp may bear away
The blazon of that fierce affray,
But, freedom! I will never show
Thy dread anatomy of woe.

O War! thou miscreating curse!
Dark juggler of the universe!
How hast thou marr'd this glorious globe!
Throwing round thee thy scarlet robe,
And masking, with the rainbow's blaze
Of gem-like beauty, like fierce face.
Thou hast deceived, from Time's first ages,
Its mighty captains, lords, and sages,
Till they and the strong multitude
And, drunk with thy bewildering song,
From horn, or harp, or cymbalon,
Done deeds which might the lion shame,
And make the nations pale to name.
For priests, their mitres are thy mirth,
Thy panders are the kings of earth:
From their high pagods dost thou come,
Charioted with the hideous hum
Of thousands, who, where'er it reels,
Perish beneath thy waggon wheels.

Heaven's angry angel pour wrath on thee, War!
Ambition and cruelty harness thy car,
And ruin, and rapine, and fell decay,
Herald thee on thy blighting way.
Thou cancellest treaty at thy nod,
Crumblest the robes of the priest of God.
On the palace of kings, and the peasant's cot,
Thou turnest thy visage, and they are not;
Where thy hurricane hurtles, a capital burns;
And infancy's ashes fill innocent urns.
Wrath on thee, War! thou hast given to the tomb
Tens of thousands to dread the day of doom:
Thou hast fix'd on the age that is rolling by,
The terrible charm of the rattlesnake's eye:
They have come to thy altar, with fire and spell,
To people the chambers of death and hell.
Yet royalty smiles, and yet beauty vows,
They crown thee with laurel and myrtle boughs,
And minstrels throng to their hallow'd spring,
Thy sanction'd homicides to sing;
Dealing to nations a frenzied fire,
Sorrow to mercy, and shame to the lyre.