ODE
TO
PEACE
,
BY
THE
SAME
.
O
Thou
,
who
bad'st
thy
turtles
bear
Swift
from
his
grasp
thy
golden
hair
,
And
sought'st
thy
native
skies
:
When
War
,
by
vultures
drawn
from
far
,
To
Britain
bent
his
iron
car
,
And
bad
his
storms
arise
!
Tir'd
of
his
rude
tyrannic
sway
,
Our
youth
shall
fix
some
festive
day
,
His
sullen
shrines
to
burn
:
But
thou
,
who
hear'st
the
turning
spheres
,
What
sounds
may
charm
thy
partial
ears
,
And
gain
thy
blest
return
!
O
Peace
,
thy
injur'd
robes
up-bind
,
O
rise
,
and
leave
not
one
behind
Of
all
thy
beamy
train
:
The
British
lion
,
goddess
sweet
,
Lies
stretch'd
on
earth
to
kiss
thy
feet
,
And
own
thy
holier
reign
.
Let
others
court
thy
transient
smile
,
But
come
to
grace
thy
western
isle
,
By
warlike
Honour
led
!
And
,
while
around
her
ports
rejoice
,
While
all
her
sons
adore
thy
choice
,
With
him
for
ever
wed
!