RETURN, sweet Peace, and shed thy glories round,
And spread thy fair wings o'er a troubled isle;
No more let carnage stain the fruitful ground,
And blood the works of Heaven's hand defile.

Shall Discord drive thee, mild-ey'd nymph, away?
And Faction strike thee with its ruthless hand?
Shall Havoc mock thee on the crimson'd way,
Confusion reign, and Ruin grinning stand?

Shall Famine point its all-consuming sword?
And Misery reach the sunny cottage door?
Shall naught remain to deck the frugal board,
Or bless the humble offspring of the poor?

Must the sad widow weep her loss in vain?
The little orphan vainly ask for bread?
Yet still shall strife and sanction'd murder reign,
And scalding tears be still unheeded shed?