Strophe.
html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Ye guardian Powers, to whose command
At Nature's birth, th' Almighty Mind
The delegated task assign'd
To watch o'er Albion's favour'd land.
What time your hosts with choral lay,
Emerging from its kindred deep,
Applausive hail'd each verdant steep,
And white rock, glitt'ring to the New-born day!
Angelic bands, where'er ye rove,
Whilst lock'd in sleep creation lies,
Whether to genial dews above
You melt the congregated skies,
Or teach the torrent streams below
To wake the verdure of the vale,
Or guide the varying winds that blow
To speed the coming or the parting sail,
Where'er ye bend your roving flight,
Whilst now the radiant Lord of light
Winds to the North his sliding sphere,
Avert each ill, each bliss improve,
And teach the minutes as they move
To bless the opening year.
Antistrophe.
Already Albion's lifted spear
And rolling thunders of the main,
Which Justice' sacred laws maintain,
Have taught the haughty Gaul to fear.
On other earths, in other skies,
Beyond old Ocean's western bound,
Tho' bleeds afresh th' eternal wound,
Again Britannia's cross triumphant flies.
To British George, the King of Isles,
The tribes that rove th' Acadian snows,
Redeem'd from Gallia's polish'd wiles,
Shall breathe their voluntary vows:
Where Nature guards her last retreat,
And pleas'd Astræa lingers still,
While Faith yet triumphs o'er Deceit,
And Virtue reigns, from ignorance of ill.
Yet Angel-pow'rs, tho' Gallia bend,
Tho' Fame, with all her wreaths, attend
On bleeding War's tremendous sway,
The sons of Leisure still complain,
And musing Science sighs in vain,
For Peace is still away.
Epode.
Go, then, ye faithful guides
Of her returning steps, angelic band.
Explore the sacred seats where Peace resides,
And waves her olive wand.
Bid her the waftes of War repair.
——O southward seek the flying Fair,
For not on poor Germania's harrass'd plain,
Nor where the Vistula's proud current swells,
Nor on the borders of the frighted Seine,
Nor in the depths of Russia's snows she dwells;
Yet O, where'er, deserting Freedom's isle.
She gilds the slave's delusive toil,
Whether on Ebro's banks she strays,
Or sighing traces Taio's winding ways,
Or soft Ausonia's shores her feet detain,
O bring the wand'rer back, with Glory in her train.