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Eighteen Hundred And Eleven By Mrs. Barbauld

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with corn the vale; Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain, Disease and Rapine follow in her train; The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough, The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now, And where the Soldier gleans the scant supply. The helpless Peasant but retires to die; No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield, And war‘s least horror is the ensanguined field. 1 .