Be warned by Manila,
  Take warning by Manila,
  Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land,
  Ye may hold the land in fee;
  But not go down to the sea in ships
  To battle with the free;
  For England and America
  Will keep and hold the sea!

RICHARD HOVEY.

* * * * *

IV.

PEACE.

* * * * *

ODE TO PEACE.

  Daughter of God! that sitt’st on high
  Amid the dances of the sky,
  And guidest with thy gentle sway
  The planets on their tuneful way;
    Sweet Peace! shall ne’er again
  The smile of thy most holy face,
  From thine ethereal dwelling-place,
  Rejoice the wretched, weary race
    Of discord-breathing men? 
  Too long, O gladness-giving Queen! 
  Thy tarrying in heaven has been;
  Too long o’er this fair blooming world
  The flag of blood has been unfurled,
    Polluting God’s pure day;
  Whilst, as each maddening people reels,
  War onward drives his scythed wheels,
  And at his horses’ bloody heels
    Shriek Murder and Dismay.

  Oft have I wept to hear the cry
  Of widow wailing bitterly;
  To see the parent’s silent tear
  For children fallen beneath the spear;
    And I have felt so sore
  The sense of human guilt and woe,
  That I, in Virtue’s passioned glow,
  Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)
    The shape of man I bore! 
  Then come from thy serene abode,
  Thou gladness-giving child of God! 
  And cease the world’s ensanguined strife,
  And reconcile my soul to life;
    For much I long to see,
  Ere I shall to the grave descend,
  Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
  And to the world’s remotest end
    Wave Love and Harmony!

WILLIAM TENNANT.

* * * * *

END OF THE CIVIL WAR.

FROM KING RICHARD III., ACT I. SC.  I.

  Now is the winter of our discontent
  Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
  And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
  In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 
  Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
  Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
  Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
  Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
  Grim-visaged War hath smoothed his wrinkled front. 
  And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
  To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
  He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber,
  To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

DISARMAMENT.