Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"
Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.