Ode, Written On The Opening Of The Last Campaign

Spring! thy impatient bloom restrain,
  Nor wake so soon thy genial pow'r,
For, deeds of death must hail thy reign,
  And clouds of fate around thee low'r.
Alas! not all thy store of charms
  For patriot hearts can comfort find,
Or lull to peace the dread alarms
  Which rack the friends of human kind.
In vain thy balmy breath to me
  Scents with its sweets the ev'ning gale;
In vain the violet's charms I see,
  Or fondly mark thy primrose pale.
To me thy softest zephyrs breathe,
  Of sorrow's soul-distracting tone,
To me thy most attractive wreath
  Seems ting'd with human blood alone.
Arrest thy steps, thou source of love,
  Thou genial friend of joy and life
Let not thy smile propitious prove
  To works of carnage, scenes of strife.
Bid Winter all his frowns recall,
  And back his icy footsteps trace;
Again the soil in frost inthrall,
  And check the War-fiend's murd'rous chace.
Ah, fruitless pray'r! thy hand divine
  MUST on the teeming season lead,
And (contrast dire!) at War's red shrine
  Must bid unnumber'd victims bleed.
But not in vain—if on this hour
  The fate of Freedom shall depend—
If o'er this earth th' Eternal Pow'r
  The scale of Justice now extend.
For then, O Spring, thy sun shall see
  The patriot flame triumphant shine;
GALLIA shall bid the world be free,
  And WAR his blood-stain'd throne resign!