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Poem
October 12, 1829
Daily Richmond Whig
Richmond, Virginia
What is this article about?
An anti-war poem addressing conquerors, contrasting the joy of peasant family life with the devastation and grief caused by war, urging them to pause their march of terror.
Clipping
OCR Quality
98%
Excellent
Full Text
From the Atlantic Souvenir for 1830.
AN APPEAL.
BY P. M. WETMORE.
Oh! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, your conquerors!
Ye worshippers of glory!
Who bathe the earth in blood
And launch proud names for an after age
Upon the crimson flood.
Pause in your march of terror!
Wo hovers o'er your path;
Madness, despair and death await
The conflict's gathering wrath!
Think ye a throne will prosper,
A nation's glory rise,
When your bark is borne by a people's tears
And wafted by their sighs?
Look to the peaceful dwelling
Of the peasant and his race;
There's joy around that lowly hearth,
There's rapture on each face.
That brow with snow is whitened,
Those eyes with age are dim;
But his face is bright at the twilight hour,
As he joins the evening hymn.
For his children there are smiling:
What a blessed sight it is
To sit in the shade of a pleasant eve,
And gaze on a scene like this.
Two manly youths are standing
Beside their father's chair,
And a maiden's face, all loveliness,
Shines like a sunbeam there.
A mother's placid features
Are in that circle found,
And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy,
As she fondly looks around.
On through the paths to glory
Ye mighty conquerors!
The trumpet's voice has summoned forth
Your legions to the wars!
Rush on through fields of carnage
And tread to earth the foe!
Where'er your banner floats above,
Let your sabres flash below!
Yet stay your march to greatness
Your breath has been a blast!
Where is the peaceful cottage now
Its hearth is desolate!
Upon that door no longer
The twilight shadows fall:
In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps
Beneath the ruined wall.
Ye tore away his strong ones-
On the battle field they lie;
The mother pined in her grief away
And laid her down to die
That form of seraph sweetness
Where the eye enraptured gazed,
Is now a wretched wreck in its loveliness
For the lost one's brain is crazed.
'Twere better tho were sleeping
Within the silent tomb!
For never more to her phrensied eye
The flowers of life shall bloom!
And these are 'mong the trophies
That build you up a name-
With blood and tears, ye conquerors!
Ye purchase empty fame.
AN APPEAL.
BY P. M. WETMORE.
Oh! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, your conquerors!
Ye worshippers of glory!
Who bathe the earth in blood
And launch proud names for an after age
Upon the crimson flood.
Pause in your march of terror!
Wo hovers o'er your path;
Madness, despair and death await
The conflict's gathering wrath!
Think ye a throne will prosper,
A nation's glory rise,
When your bark is borne by a people's tears
And wafted by their sighs?
Look to the peaceful dwelling
Of the peasant and his race;
There's joy around that lowly hearth,
There's rapture on each face.
That brow with snow is whitened,
Those eyes with age are dim;
But his face is bright at the twilight hour,
As he joins the evening hymn.
For his children there are smiling:
What a blessed sight it is
To sit in the shade of a pleasant eve,
And gaze on a scene like this.
Two manly youths are standing
Beside their father's chair,
And a maiden's face, all loveliness,
Shines like a sunbeam there.
A mother's placid features
Are in that circle found,
And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy,
As she fondly looks around.
On through the paths to glory
Ye mighty conquerors!
The trumpet's voice has summoned forth
Your legions to the wars!
Rush on through fields of carnage
And tread to earth the foe!
Where'er your banner floats above,
Let your sabres flash below!
Yet stay your march to greatness
Your breath has been a blast!
Where is the peaceful cottage now
Its hearth is desolate!
Upon that door no longer
The twilight shadows fall:
In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps
Beneath the ruined wall.
Ye tore away his strong ones-
On the battle field they lie;
The mother pined in her grief away
And laid her down to die
That form of seraph sweetness
Where the eye enraptured gazed,
Is now a wretched wreck in its loveliness
For the lost one's brain is crazed.
'Twere better tho were sleeping
Within the silent tomb!
For never more to her phrensied eye
The flowers of life shall bloom!
And these are 'mong the trophies
That build you up a name-
With blood and tears, ye conquerors!
Ye purchase empty fame.
What sub-type of article is it?
Ode
Satire
What themes does it cover?
War Military
Moral Virtue
What keywords are associated?
Anti War Appeal
Conquerors
Peaceful Home
Family Destruction
Empty Fame
What entities or persons were involved?
By P. M. Wetmore.
Poem Details
Title
An Appeal.
Author
By P. M. Wetmore.
Key Lines
Oh! Could Ye Taste The Mirth Ye Mar, Your Conquerors!
Think Ye A Throne Will Prosper, A Nation's Glory Rise, When Your Bark Is Borne By A People's Tears And Wafted By Their Sighs?
Yet Stay Your March To Greatness Your Breath Has Been A Blast! Where Is The Peaceful Cottage Now Its Hearth Is Desolate!
And These Are 'Mong The Trophies That Build You Up A Name With Blood And Tears, Ye Conquerors! Ye Purchase Empty Fame.