Freedom

Tis not because fierce swords are flashing there,
  With license and a reckless scorn of life,
  When for some petty gaud upstarts a strife,
  That Freedom there must harbour. Slavery's air
  Breeds many a liveried satrap, prompt to dare,
  And soldier-serfs are ready there and rife
  To march at summons of the jerking fife.
  But where swords—some—are turned to ploughshares;
  where
  Others, not rusted, o'er the household hearth,
  In peaceful pomp, near cradled babe are hung;
  And sires rest reverenced in holy earth,
  And marriage-bells with holy cheer are rung,
  There Freedom dwells, Constraint's sublime reward.
  And Peace must rear her, e'en if War must guard.