Joys of Peace

And, oh! that they might till rich fields,
And that unnumbered sheep and fat
Might bleat cheerily through the plains,
And that oxen coming in herds to the stalls
Should urge on the traveller by twilight.
And, oh! that the fallow lands might
Be broken up for sowing,
When the cicala, sitting on his tree,
Watches the shepherd in the open day,
And chirps on the topmost spray;
That spiders may drawn their fine webs
Over martial arms, and not even the name
Of the battle-cry be heard.