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Poem	Peace, for whose presence did we erewhile call With cry sincere, vowing (God knoweth, those Prótests how passionate were) to love thee all, Yet when thou camest, pander’d to thy foes Weaklier than ever, now again the throes Convulse our being; now, Peace, may’st thou see, This lust-devoted land is not for thee. Farewell! Small wonder is it if thou flee Such faithlessness, yet doth thy memory still Dwell in each place where thou hast walked with me, In dawn’s fresh mead or by noon’s shady rill, Or when cool evening wafteth, on our hill; Allwheres that beauty’s comfort-laden breath Sootheth tired sorrow till it slumbereth.
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