Classic Poem

The Mount of Olives was thy seat,
O Angel, heav'nly fair;
And thou, sweet Peace, didst often meet
Thy Prince and Saviour there.

But now abroad condemn'd to roam,
From Salem lov'd and bless'd;
A quiet conscience is thine home,
In every faithful breast.

Thou didst Augustus first inspire,
That bloody war should cease;
And to Melchisedec retire,
The Sov'reign of our peace.

O come unto the Church repair,
And her defects review;
Of old thou plantedst olives there,
Which to redundance grew.

Sustain the pillars of the state,
Be health and wealth conjoin'd;
And in each house thy turtles mate,
To multiply mankind.