Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Not so the rustic:  with his trembling mate
   He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
   Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
   Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
   No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star
   Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: 
   Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
   Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.