On the Peace
The Scots Magazine, LXIV (May 1802), p. 424
Earth, cover now the bloody heap!
Where Albion's gallant warriors lie;
Ye funeral trenches, dark and deep,
Close round their soon forgotten sleep;
'Tis glory's hapless destiny!
Sea, with thy billows, heave the sand
Around Aboukir's ancient bay,
Lest conscious tempests wash to land,
At angry Nature's wild command,
The ruins of her fatal day.
And sing your anthems sweet, at eve,
Ye angels in the listening sky,
The widow's bosom to relieve;
Despair at last may cease to grieve,
And time may conquer agony.
Her virgin hopes will Peace repair,
Her love by early sorrows crost;
Her blooming youth consumed with care;
Her pallid cheek no longer fair,
And happiness for ever lost!