One Voice

In right's enjoyment, in the arm of love, Beneath the olive's shadow, The Daneman sat; Whilst wet and steaming wav'd the bloody flag Above the regions of the sunny South. Pure was our heaven,— Pure and blue; For, with his pinions, angel Peace dispell'd All reek and vapour from mild virtue's sphere; Then lower'd Battle's blood-bespatter'd son Upon our coast,— And haggard Envy lent to him her torch, Which sparkled high with hell's sulphureous light, Then fled the genius of peace, and wept.