The voice of mirth succeeds the harsh dispute,
And yields the warrior-trumpet to the lute.
No more by virgin hands are garlands twined
To shade the hero's brow, his temples bind;
But softest flowers are gathered for the fair,
To wreathe in bands of joy the flowing hair ;
Garlands, to crown the happy-not the brave;
To grace the dance- not wither on the grave.
See, the glad ray across the ocean streams!
Our hills are brightened by the joyous beams.
Arise, my country-join the general voice-
Wake the deep echoes bid thy sons rejoice!
The clouds have passed, the tempest-thunders cease,
And hope's gay rainbow gilds the sky of peace.
Lo, on all sides the kindling raptures spread,
Beam on the brow, and lift the buoyant tread.
Hark! on the wind what joyful accents rise!
See, novel splendors light the evening skies!
The flag streams proudly to the favoring gale,
And Commerce wide unfurls her swelling sail.
Our eagle, quenched the lightning of his eye,
Floats with unmoving wing along the sky;
Far from his grasp the bloody arrows thrown,
His talons wield the olive-branch alone.
O, happy rescue from the ills that wait
On war's tumultuous and uncertain state!
O, happy rescue from the fearful train,

That thickened round, of wretchedness and pain!
Look back, and see the evils that were near
The dangers, sufferings, poverty, and fear.

Drained was the public purse, the credit gone,
And private want urged public ruin on.

Who then the deep despondency could chase,
The settled sadness of the patriot's face?
Who could dispel the darkness of the breast,
And lay its chill and torturing fears to rest,
When the sick heart beheld its prospects droop,
And courage fainted on the tomb of hope?
The past how sad the marks of woe it bore!
How blank the dreary waste that stretched before!
But yet some gleams of glory rushed between,
And threw a dazzling brightness on the scene.
Whose heart was still, that heard the deeds of might —
Th' unequalled grandeur of our ocean fight?
Who felt not proud, when each returning wave
Rolled home a glorious tribute to the brave?
Who felt not proud, th' ennobling tale to tell —
"Our fathers' spirits in their children dwell"?
Who but the ardor of the contest knows,
From the high opening to the signal close-
From Hull's first flash, that woke th' astonished main,
To the last peal, that echoed on Champlain ?

Ye gallant few, that trod the mighty deep,
Enough is done; now let your terrors sleep;
Sleep-like your native ocean-still, yet dread.
Its spirit slumbers but it is not dead;
Be the calm moved, again its fury roars,

Raves to the blast, and dashes to the shores.

But now enough; retire, your country's pride;

Fame shouts your honors loud, and spreads them wide;

Enjoy the sounds upon a tranquil main,

Nor ask the triumph of the fight again.

Hushed be the war-storm on the sea and lake;

Long hushed the passions that its rage would wake.

And hail the flag that waves upon our shore;
Proud let it wave- and wave forevermore.
True, in the northern war it bowed its head,
Its stars were clouded, and their lustre fled.
Our capital beheld its deep disgrace;
Hide, ye that saw it, hide your blushing face.
Americans! and see your city fired!

O, who were they that saw it- and retired?
But stay for those that bade the eagle roam
May well be found a feeble guard at home.
But plant the standard where are men to fight,
Ne'er shall it droop in war, or trail in flight.
It must not flutter in a foreign air

A freeman's arm is weak and nerveless there;
And freedom's star alike its beam denies
To him who fights for conquest, and who flies.
But range our soldiers on their native soil,
They fear no danger, and they shun no toil;
They wait th' assault in thick and firm array,
Lift the high hand, and scatter wide dismay.
Such there have been, who met the fierce attack,
Rushed on opposing troops, and drove them trembling back.
And such, had rash invasion touched our coast,
Such would have been our hardy yeomen's boast;
They, like our sires, had bid the invaders know
Columbia bears no laurel for a foe.

But, ah! how poor the boast, to say we dared!
How small the glory, to the woe compared!
What boots it that the banners of our foe
Hang in our halls, a proud, imposing show,
If blood and tears the gaudy trophies steep,
To tell how many bled, how many weep!

Or that the laurel shades us, since it grows
In chief luxuriance where the brave repose ?
Say, will its leaves assuaging balm impart
To ease the anguish of the wounded heart?
Say, will the honors, that on fame attend,
Console the widow, or restore the friend?
In victory's day, the shout is all we hear;
The sob of sorrow reaches not the ear.

The dazzling pomp is all that meets the light;
The toil, the suffering, is concealed from sight.
But could we tell how vast th' amount of woe
Behold the wounded, and their tortures know
Go to the chamber where the widow sighs,
And see the orphans' tears, and hear their cries
Mark all the frantic transports of despair,
The piercing shriek, the mingled curse and prayer-
O, we should bleed at heart, when Victory's voice
Rang through the crowd, and bade the land rejoice;
Should shrink with shuddering from war's iron sound,
And tread its proudest trophies to the ground.

Then hail, sweet Peace, man's high, yet injured friend! No gloomy terrors on thy steps attend;

No forms of woe, no demons armed with wrath,

But quiet, hope, and plenty wait thy path.

War wastes around him with consuming breath;
Our comforts fade, our friendships sink in death.
He treads along a track of living fire,
And science, arts, and happiness expire.

Demon, be gone! we hate thy savage mien;

But Peace, sweet nymph, be thou our lovely queen.
Come, soothe our sorrows with thy cheerful song;
Bring all thy blessings, and continue long.

Lo, Plenty springs beneath thy verdant tread,
And Art, reviving, lifts to heaven her head.
White o'er the billows moves th' adventurous sail,
And riches pour to land with every gale.
The city sees its splendid domes increase,
With all the grandeur and the fame of Greece;
The country smiles in richer verdure crowned,
While cheerful toil and rustic mirth resound;
And Science sees her favorite mansions rise,
Till Harvard's turrets tremble in the skies;
Till other Miltons stretch a loftier flight,
And other Newtons tread new fields of light.
Hail, hail, the distant beauty of our land,
That Hope has pictured with a glowing hand!
Roll on, ye happy years, in rapture roll;
Pour all your promise on th' impatient soul-
The brilliant promise of a lovelier day,
Of purer light, and clear, unclouded ray.
Fathers, your sons shall then in virtues shine,
That raise the human nearer the divine.

Mothers, your daughters, more accomplished then,
Shall smile with sweeter smiles on worthier men.
Then public good, on private virtue built,
Shall stand unmoved by vice, unstained by guilt.
Then, guided by the wisdom from above,
We all shall harmonize in perfect love;
Shall cast the trophies of our wars away,
And nobler honors to the world display.