Astonishing Abraham Newland (Stirling)/Peace with France

PEACE WITH FRANCE.

Let ev'ry Briton's heart rejoice,
Come Momus! raise thy cheerful voice,
And sing wsth merry glee;
Let sound of drums no more be heard,
Nor warlike weapons more be fear'd,
By either land or sea.

Let factions persecuting band,
Be drove from this now happy land?
And Commerce raise her head;
And let the wretch whoever dare,
Light up the horrid torch of War,
Be numbered with the dead!

O, happy and delightful news,
That opens with propitious views,
To this much favour'd Isle,
Infants unborn shall bless the day,
That curb'd the sanguinary away.
And makes all nature smile.

To mourn the fate of thousands slain,
Creates but unavailing pain,—
The present blissings ours,
'Tis ours with gratitude to shew,
We can forgive our erring foe;
Peace strews the way with flowers;

The poor no more shall pine for bread;
Starvation shall not raise her head;
The Speculator's cross'd;
His hoarded stores he now must sell,
His prospects gone—the markets tell,
His character is lost

Let all our sufferings be forgot,
Let Peace and Freedom be the lot,
Of every virtuous man:
While grateful bosoms never cease,
To thank kind Providence for Peace,
With all the powers they can.

The trumpet's direful clang no more,
Shall e'er be heard, nor cannons roar,
The Warrior sheaths his sword:
The plough shall wind along the vale,
And Ceres bows before the gale,
To swell the Peasant's board.

The Shepherds pipe in sweeter strains,
Is heard at eve upon the plains,
Behind the snowy fleece;
The Loom resumes its former hue,
The Weavers toils again renew,
And hails the dawn of Peace.

Now man and man are brothers all,
The olive leaf throughout the ball,
And joy appears apace,
Tho' Winter peeps behind the scene,
The spring with all its charms serene,
With all our ills efface.

Now Parents, with a cheerful voice,
Shall welcome to their native place,
The darlings of their age,
And cheerful around their evening fire,
Chat o'er their toils and troubles dire,
While long they did engage.

O, may the few who such shall miss,
Be soothed by some unseen bliss,
To heal the pangs of woe;
And let them think that thousands more,
Are lifeless laid upon the shore,
Neglected long ago.

O, may this Island never trace,
Again the scourge of human race,
Upon her fertile coast,
But may her favourite King live long,
And be the theme of loyal song,
'Till time itself is lost.