From the Belfast News-letter.
On the Peace
William Cunningham 
The Gentleman's Magazine, LXXI (November 1801), p. 1030.
Long banish'd Peace again descends,
Array'd in all her heav'nly charms;
Her dove-like wings to earth she bends,
Bids Europe drop the deathful arms.
Aghast she stands at her return,
To view War, Death, and Horror reign;
Hears widows, mothers, orphans mourn,
For husbands, sons, and fathers slain.
Scarce had the Heav'nly Goddess spoke,
When France and Britain heard her voice;
The hostile bands of war were broke—
Let all the world around rejoice!
Armies commission'd to destroy,
Shall ravage Europe's plains no more;
No longer they their arms employ
To drench her fertile fields with gore.
The Rhine shall cease with blood to flow,
Th' affrighted Po shall limpid stray;
Where late encamp'd the warlike foe.
Blithe shepherds and their flocks will play.
Victorious Nelson! war give o'er,
With laurel wreaths and olive crown'd;
Now moor thy fleet round Albion's shore,
That long hath aw'd the great Profound.
Commerce displays her canvas wings,
To foreign climes bounds o'er the flood;
Their choicest stores from thence she brings;
Her constant aim's the public good.
Life-aiding Agriculture spreads
Beneath th' industrious peasant's care;
The hostile bands no more he dreads,
To mar the labour of the year.
E'en Science self will wake anew,
In ev'ry grace divinely drest;
And ope new prospects to our view,
While love and friendship warms each breast.
The tender mother fondly hears
The darling son from danger freed;
Whose breast for his oft heav'd with fears,
Lest War should him to battle lead.
The lovely nymph of blooming chains
May fearless yield her heart and all,
Since War no more will from her arms
Her favourite swain to battle call.
These, and a thousand gifts are thine,
Sweet Peace!—which War can never know:
Now Europe bows before thy shrine,
From thee her choicest blessings flow.