Complaint of quarrelsome neighbours;
or, A devout wish for peace.
Thou God of love, thou ever blest,
Pity my suffering state;
When wilt thou set my soul at rest
From lips that love deceit?
Hard lot of mine! my days are cast
Among the sons of strife,
Whose never-ceasing brawlings waste
My golden hours of life.
O might I fly to change my place,
How would I chuse to dwell
In some wide lonesome wilderness,
And leave these gates of hell.
Peace is the blessing that I seek,
How lovely are its charms;
I am for peace; but when I speak,
They all declare for arms.
New passions still their souls engage,
And keep their malice strong:
What shall be done to curb thy rage,
O thou devouring tongue!
Should burning arrows smite thee thro’,
Strict justice would approve;
But I had rather spare my foe,
And melt his heart with love.