tailieunhanh - Eighteen Hundred And Eleven By Mrs. Barbauld
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 . | Eighteen Hundred and Eleven Anna Laetitia Barbauld DODO I WI PRESS EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN A POEM. BY ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. .
đang nạp các trang xem trước