Peace

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.