Far back in the ages, <br />The plough with wreaths was crowned; <br />The hands of kings and sages <br />Entwined the chaplet round; <br />Till men of spoil disdained the toil <br />By which the world was nourished, <br />And dews of blood enriched the soil <br />Where green their laurels flourished: <br />--Now the world her fault repairs-- <br />The guilt that stains her story; <br />And weeps her crimes amid the cares <br />That formed her earliest glory. <br />The proud throne shall crumble, <br />The diadem shall wane, <br />The tribes of earth shall humble <br />The pride of those who reign; <br />And War shall lay his pomp away;-- <br />The fame that heroes cherish, <br />The glory earned in deadly fray <br />Shall fade, decay, and perish. <br />Honour waits, o'er all the Earth, <br />Through endless generations, <br />The art that calls her harvests forth, <br />And feeds the expectant nations.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-for-an-agricultural-celebration/
