Where, O where
Hath gentle Peace found rest?
Builds she in bower of lady fair?—
But Love — he hath possession there;
Not long is she the guest.


Sits she crown’d
Beneath a pictured dome?
But there Ambition keeps his ground
And Fear and Envy Stalk around;
This cannot be her home!


Will she hide
In scholar’s pensive cell?
But he already hath his bride:
Him Melancholy sits beside—
With her she may not dwell!


Now and then,
Peace, wandering lays her head
On regal couch, in captive’s den—
But nowhere finds she rest with men,
Or only with the dead!

Samuel Warren, “Peace,” from Ten Thousand A-Year