To Peace

T HATCH'D is the roof that shelters thee,
From tempest of the passions free;
No Zephyr's breath so cool and sweet
Against the parching Summer's heat;
Thy rays the chilling post can melt,
The bosom glows if thou art felt.
All intellect, by thee approv'd,
All gentle hearts — by thee belov'd,
Are as the chords which tune the lyre,
And varied Harmony inspire.
Thy gift in philosophic wealth
Is Freedom's throne — and rustic health
To Poverty can lend a charm,
And wild Ambition's rage disarm.
The secret of all human bliss,
None — that have thee , can ever miss;
And if thy subjects thee disclaim,
Felicity usurps the name.
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