Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 36.djvu/302

276 Are all disasters much less dire, Than statesmen who too high aspire; From them less desolation springs, Than from the dangerous feuds of kings.

From India's verge to Gallia's shore, One family the sun rolls o'er: O'er this love only still should reign, And union amongst all maintain. Mortals, you're bound by sacred tie, Therefore those cruel arms lay by; Can you advantage gain by fight? Can you in havoc find delight? When you're sunk in death's dismal gloom, What bliss expect you in the tomb?

Those soldiers well deserve applause, Who combat in their country's cause; But you for hire your lives expose, You're paid to combat others' foes: You die to prop some tyrant's throne, Some tyrant to your eyes unknown; You are hired assassins to defend Lords, who ill pay you in the end.

Such are those greedy birds of prey, Those animals which man obey, Who can their native fierceness tame, And teach them to pursue their game. The sounding horn excites their rage, And makes them ardent to engage;