Now wing'd by fear no husbandman remains, 

 By culture to restore the ravaged plains ; 

 No gentle shepherd tends his fleecy care, 

 Both rush to war, the rage of battle dare; 

 And soldiers grown, oh! dire reverse of fate, 

 Destroy those fields their labours till'd so late ! 

 With anguish'd hearts the women sit and wail. 

 As fears for husbands, or for sons prevail: 

 Perchance a warrior here and there is found, 

 Debarr'd the field by many a rankling wound; 

 Round him. the curious children fondly swarm. 

 Hang on his tongue, and at his tale grow warm; 

 The hist'ry of each aching wound desire. 

 Devour each word, and catch congenial fire ; 

 And while the hero, in impressive strain, 

 Becites the wonders of the bloody plain, 

 The steed's loud neighing, and the clank of arms, 

 The thund'ring drum that beats to war's alarms, 

 The clanging trumpet and the cannon's roar. 

 The dying groans, and fields of streaming gore, 

 The little audience high erect their crests. 

 While martial ardours warm their glowing breasts. 

 To us our friends, as fatal as our foes. 

 These also swell the torrent of our woes ; 

 Advancing or retreating squadrons spread 

 Unbounded ravage, where their footsteps tread. 

 To YOU, great Sire, we make our fond appeal, 

 Whose justice only can our sufi:''rings heal ; 

 To YOU e'en helpless females may complain. 

 Nor shed their tears, nor plead their cause in vain; 

 And trembling babes, midst many a heart-felt sigh. 

 With confidence lift up th' imploring eye. 

 To YOU whose kind humanity stoops down, 

 From all the dazzling grandeur of a crown, 

 To shield the peasant in his lowly shed. 

 To raise misfortune from her painful bed, 

 To guard the meanest Avho for j ustice press, 

 And grant the humblest supplicant redress, 

 To YOU a nation's pray'rs united rise; 

 Act like the great vice-gerent of the skies; 

 Relieve our sufi^'rings, War's dire rage restrain, 

 And o'er our grateful hearts for ever reign. 





