nd raging reign'd.
Long on the margins of the silver Tweed
Opposing Ensigns wav'd; War's clarion
Dreadfully echo'd down the winding stream,
Where now sweet Peace and Unity reside:
The happy peasant of Tweed's smiling dale,
Whene'er his spade disturbs a Soldier's bones,
With shudd'ring horror ruminates on War;
Then deeper hides the awful spectacle,
Blessing the peaceful days in which he lives
Since Peace has bless'd the villages on Tweed,
And War has ceas'd to drive his iron car
On Britain's shore, what myriads of men
Over the Eastern and the Western Seas
Have follow'd War, and found untimely graves.
Where'er the jarring interests of States
Excite the brave to' advance their native land
By deeds of arms, Britons are foremost found.
The sprightly bands, hast'ning from place to place,
Gayly carousing in their gay attire,
Invite, not force the train of heedless youths,
Who croud to share their jollity and joy:
To martial music dancing into death,
They fell their Freedom for a holiday;
And with the Rich and Great 'tis Glory charms,
And Beauty's favour that rewards the Brave.
All the historic Records of the World
Are little more than histories of Wars;
Shewing how many thousands War destroy'd,
The time, the place, and some few great ones' names.
The mournful remnants of demolished States,
The Greek, the Roman, and long-exil'd Jew;
Are living monuments of wasting War's
Annihilating power: and while they mourn
Their Grandeur faded, and their Power extinct,
To every State _memento mori_ sounds.
From age to age the habitable World
Has been a constant theatre of War:
In every land with Nature's gifts most blest,
Frequent and fatal Wars destructive rage.
So bland is fair Britannia's genial clime,
So liberal her all-protecting Laws,
So generous the spirit of her Sons,
So fond, so chaste, her Daughters virtuous love,
That human offspring still redundant grows,
And free-born Britons must contend for life.
O! envy not the lands where Slaves reside,
Though their proud Tyrants boast of _peaceful_ reign,
Where hard Oppression, freezing genial love,
Performs the work of War in embryo:
Let not mistaken fondness doat on Peace,
Preserv'd by arts more horrid far than War! ...
Let the dull languor of the pale Chinese
Desert their Infants, and their _Peace_ enjoy!
But, O! let Britons still in Love and War
Exert the generous ardour of the soul;
Protect the Fair, and foster Infancy.
By strenuous enterprize, and arduou