6.

Yes, be mine the mailed host;
Yes, be mine the victor's boast;
Yes, be mine the dreaded name;
Bath'd in gore, the wreath of fame;
Yes, be mine the groan, the tear,
Widow's shriek and maiden's fear.
Full enough my tide of joy,
While I ravage and destroy;
While the nations kiss the rod,

Owning the Lion-Wrath of God.

ODE V.

TO PEACE.

1801.

SHE COMES.

STROPHE.

I see the dove-eyed maid!—

O! welcome as the morning star,

When stormy nights, of deepest shade,
Scatter before the radiant car.-

O! welcome as the winnowing breeze,
That, when Columbia's cities mourn

The desolating pest, forlorn,

Springs balmy from Atlantic seas.

The Atlantic breeze, from winnowing wings,

The renovating virtue flings,

A half-extinguish'd race to save,

Chace the mephitic gloom, and close the satiate grave.

H

ANTISTROPHE.

Yes, see-she comes!-The storm subsides;
The maddening pests of War retire;
The Fiend no more the tempest rides

O'er seas of blood, and realms of fire.
She comes, at whose benign command
Red Murder drops the unwilling knife,
While Vengeance, from unfinish'd strife,
Reluctant stays the uplifted hand:

Fell Devastation stops, appall'd

Her power repeal'd-her doom recall'd;
Nor longer, with wide-wasting brand,

The smouldering city wraps, or sweeps the ravag'd land.

EPODE.

Yes, dove-ey'd Peace! on Halcyon wing,

Thou com'st, the smiling hours to bring
Of joy and hope serene;

The Social Virtues, in thy train,

Shall bless the harrass'd world again,

And cheer the sylvan scene.

No more shall stream the orphan eye:
The widow's shriek, the virgin's sigh,

With modest pang supprest,

No more, at War's infuriate yell,
Or shout-that peals a myriad's knell,
Shall rend the feeling breast.

From Labour's baffled hand, no more.

Shall nature now withhold her store,

But all her wealth display;

For thou hast breath'd, o'er hill and plain,
Blest power! the renovating strain,
And elements obey.

See, Earth her amplest tribute pours:
The Streams unlock their secret stores,
With latent life impregn'd:

While genial Suns, and tepid Rains,
For future harvests, dress our plains,

And Culture's toil befriend.

H 2

Old Ocean lifts his brow serene,

And smiles, to view the alter'd scene,

And hold a quiet reign;

Pleas'd that the sanguine stream no more, Amid the slaughter's deafening roar, Pollutes the cerule plain:

Pleas'd that, thro bending mast and shroud,

The rival winds may pipe aloud

To listening shores secure

"Haste Nations! thro the boundless mart,

"The gifts of all to all impart

"The canvass spread !-and frozen lands

"Shall see, upon their sterile sands,

"The orient fruitage glow;

"While climes where suns eternal flame,

"By peace assur'd, the tribute claim

"That realms of ice bestow."