Now when the thunder of dread War is o'er,
And Peace her olive plants on B RITAIN'S shore,
Descending from the toilsome steep of power,
In tranquil shades to share the social hour,
Wilt thou, D UNDAS , this tribute sad receive,
(No fairer tribute has the Muse to give),
The plausive lay — the mournful cypress wreath,
The hard-won meed of Valour's glorious death:
Tho' with thy country's sorrows doom'd to blend
The heart-drawn sigh that mourns the long-lov'd friend;
Tho' painful memory sorrowing marks the day
When to the fatal field you sketch'd his way,
Bid him to Afric stem the hostile flood,
And plant those laurels, — water'd with his blood:
Yet when you see the cloudless glory blaze
That shed its lustre on his closing days,
And hear th' applauding world that fame resound,
With which thy counsels and his acts are crown'd,
In public joy thy private sorrows drown,
And taste unmix'd the sweets of fair renown:
And when you see your country's troubles cease,
And Commerce flourish in the shades of Peace,
The will Divine with sacred awe revere,
Nor think such blessings can be bought too dear!