O Thou, who bad'st thy Turtles bear <br />Swift from his Grasp thy golden Hair. <br /> and sought'st thy native Skies: <br />When War, by Vultures drawn from far, <br />To Britain bent his Iron Car, <br /> And bad his Storms arise! <br /> <br />2. <br /> <br />Tir'd of his rude tyrannic Sway, <br />Our Youth shall fix some festive Day, <br /> His sullen Shrines to burn: <br />But Thou who hear'st the turning Spheres, <br />What Sounds may charm thy partial Ears, <br /> And gain thy blest Return! <br /> <br />3. <br /> <br />O Peace, thy injur'd Robes up-bind, <br />O rise, and leave not one behind <br /> Of all thy beamy Train: <br />The British Lion, Goddess sweet, <br />Lies stretch'd on Earth to kiss thy Feet, <br /> And own thy holier Reign. <br /> <br />4. <br /> <br />Let others court thy transient Smile, <br />But come to grace thy western Isle, <br /> By warlike Honour led! <br />And, while around her Ports rejoice, <br />While all her Sons adore thy Choice, <br /> With Him for ever wed!<br /><br />William Taylor Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-p-e-a-c-e/
