Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/288

 Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate! That Strife should vanish. Battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory?

And is not War a youthful King, A stately Hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him Earth's majestic monarch's hail Their Friend, their Playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my Soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defil'd, That from the aged Father tears his Child!"