“Glorious Bard! to whom belong
Wreaths not often claimed by song,
Those hung round the warrior's shield—
Laurels from the blood-red field.”

“They say Mars absolves the warrior from the crimes of war, but those who were not the warriors, those for whom the war was said to be fought, even though they never wanted it to be fought, who absolves them?”

“To win, beloved Caroline from thee,
One thought, in years when we shall sever'd be--
--Sever'd, perchance, by those deep waves, which pour
Their billowy murmurs round our native shore,--
For this, I wander'd round the Bow'rs of Song,
A weary, and rejected suppliant long,
And of the Muses crav'd in humblest tone
From their rich wreaths, one simple bud alone:
They did but fling their wildest weeds at me,
And thus I twin'd them into verse for thee!”

“The shade fell darker from the clustering vine,
Whose green boughs twined the lattice like a wreath;
The lark had ceased the musical glad laugh
With which he hails the morning; note by note
The matin song had died upon the wind;
The dew which hung upon the cypresses
Had turned to sunshine on the waving leaves;”

“Shall I be gone long?
For ever and a day
To whom there belong?
Ask the stone to say
Ask my song.”

“There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.”

“As when in harp and song adept, a bard
Unlab'ring strains the chord to a new lyre.”

“On the Field of Right, the Kuru-Field, assembled, eager to fight, what did my warriors and the warriors of Pāṇḍu, O Saṁjaya?”

“The bard, the warrior, and the sage,
What win they but one lying page,
Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown,
May be or may not be their own?”

“No war, or battle's sound
Was heard the world around.
The idle spear and shield were high up hung.”