 | [To an old cannon-ball, in] Off-hand takings ; or, crayon sketches of the noticeable men of our age |  |
375
TO AN OLD CANNON BALL.
“Grim messenger of war, before me lying,No more at thee will mortal cheek turn pale,
No more wilt thou with hostile aim be flying,
A stone of revolutionary hail;
As the bright sun melts up the icy rain,
That the black clouds of summer sometimes pour;
So time is melting thee to dust again,
Thou dark remainder of an iron shower!
Good omen this, when war's clouds clear away,
And Peace angelic all our bosoms fills,
That good, through strife achieved, alone doth stay,
While rust away, in sure decay, its ills!—
A better fate is thine, depend upon it,
Than rusty death—thou livest in a sonnet.”
| [To an old cannon-ball, in] Off-hand takings ; or, crayon sketches of the noticeable men of our age | |