And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay,
But plumes her silver wings, and flies away;
And now a laurel wreath she brings from far,
To crown the happy conqueror,
To show the flood begins to cease,
And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.
II.
The eager Muse took wing upon the waves' decline,
When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew,
When the bright sun of peace began to shine,
And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat,
On the high top of peaceful Ararat;
And pluck'd a laurel branch (for laurel was the first that grew,
The first of plants after the thunderstorm and rain)
And thence, with joyful nimble wing,
Flew dutifully back again,
And made an humble chaplet for the King[1].
And the Dove-Muse is fled once more,
(Glad of the victory, yet frightened at the war)
And now discovers from afar
A peaceful and a flourishing shore:
No sooner did she land
On the delightful strand,
Than straight she sees the country all around,
Where fatal Neptune rul'd erewhile,
Scattered with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown'd,
And many a pleasant wood!
As if the universal Nile
Had rather water'd it than drown'd:
- ↑ The Ode I writ to the King in Ireland. Swift. This cannot now be recovered. N.
