But a sudden change came o'er his heart, Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said: "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,"-- And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands; And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our stanch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!"
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch-tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.-- The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust.
"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,--that would not be hard."--_The Neighbors_.
O no, no,--let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head; Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.
From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight!