Classic Poem

Whilst heav'nly Mercy's tuneful voice,
Shall bid enraptur'd crowds rejoice,
High shall those warlike ranks appear,
Who gain'd their laurels once so dear!
And fought, sweet Peace! thro' dire dismay,
And fields of blood, to find thy way.—
Go Fame! with eloquence sublime,
Proclaim the heroes of this time!
Tell them, in ev'ry honest heart,
The gen'rous Soldier claims a part!—
His suff'ring wounds to Heav'n are dear,
And doubly shall his laurels cheer,
When shelter'd from the angry blast,
They grace the olive wreath at last!

Oh may Religion's heav'nly power,
Bestow her everlasting flower!
So may its radiant beauties bloom,
Beyond the darkness of the tomb,
And shine immortal, bright and gay,
When other wreaths shall fade away!