Peace.

Halt! ye Legions, sheathe your Steel:     Blood grows precious; shed no more:     Cease your toils; your wounds to heal     Lo! beams of Mercy reach the shore!     From Realms of everlasting light     The favour'd guest of Heaven is come:     Prostrate your Banners at the sight,     And bear the glorious tidings home.     The plunging corpse with half-clos'd eyes,     No more shall stain th' unconscious brine;     Yon pendant gay, that streaming flies,     Around its idle Staff shall twine.     Behold! along th' etherial sky     Her beams o'er conquering Navies spread;     Peace! Peace! the leaping Sailors cry,     With shouts that might arouse the dead.     Then forth Britannia's thunder pours;     A vast reiterated sound!     From Line to Line the Cannon roars,     And spreads the blazing joy around.     Return, ye brave! your Country calls;     Return; return, your task is done:     While here the tear of transport falls,     To grace your Laurels nobly won.     Albion Cliffs - from age to age,     That bear the roaring storms of Heav'n,     Did ever fiercer Warfare rage?     Was ever Peace more timely given?     Wake! sounds of Joy: rouse, generous Isle;     Let every patriot bosom glow.     Beauty, resume thy wonted smile,     And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow.     Boast, Britain, of thy glorious Guests;     Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own:     Still on contented Labour rests     The basis of a lasting Throne.     Shout, Poverty! 'tis Heaven that saves;     Protected Wealth, the chorus raise:     Ruler of War, of Winds, and Waves,     Accept a prostrate Nation's praise.