I.
Once more I fain would close a joyful year,
But not with joy resounds my lay!
No, no — I sing a time of grief severe,
And keep a sprightly song for happier day!
Perhaps ere then I'll close my voice for aye,
And this may be my last complaining strain!
Yet not myself I weep; it is Britannia's pain!

II.
Made as I am to feel my Country's woe,
Ev'n equal with my own,
(And many a woe and many a grief I've known),
My self-lamenting strains I now forego,
And all in sober silent plight,
From other cares I take my flight,
To listen to my dear Britannia's moan,
On yonder wave-beat shore,
Where sad she sits and hears the billows roar.
Methinks I see her pale in sorrow tost,
Dreading her ancient glory lost!
Her garland cast at distance on the ground,
Her hair dishevell'd, and her zone unbound!
(Her bosom bare), she beats her snowy breast,
Then lists to heaven a tearful eye,
While uttering many a heaving sigh,
Her loud lamenting woes she mournful thus exprest.

III.
'Oh shall these stormy seasons ne'er give o'er?
What mean these endless tempests on my shore?
A full long year and more,
Has seen Britannia's welkin weep,
While show'rs on show'rs a daily deluge pour,
With our hard hearts they scarce can move
With all the furies of the angry North!—
Oh my dear country! to thy interests blind,
Will not thy thriving arts, thy plenteous breast,
Thy equal laws to equal freedom join'd,
Avert Heaven's sacred vengeance from thy head?
Ah no! if thus to discontent a prey,
Thou grumble on from day to day,
And loath such blessings dear, and fling such boons away!'

IV.
So spoke the Goddess all in solemn strain,
While the fair Nereids of her azure main,
Her anxious sorrow share,
Croud all around, and call the winds to hear.
Strait a calm stillness o'er the deep is spread,
Soft gentle zephyrs play around her head,
While smiling sweet thro' tears, she thus went on and said:

V.
'Shall then my glorious realms, the boast, the pride,
Of Britons bold, the envy of the world,
From their strong solid base be push'd aside,
In wild confusion hurl'd?
And all to please a vain ambitious Few,
Who spurn their king, both church and state deride,
And half their own dark schemes the proof abide?
Say, shall my dearest peace be overthrown,
And nothing left to call mine own!
My commerce, arts, my glories all resign'd;
While Faction's sons, with cursed Gallia join'd,
Would shake my stable throne, and ruin half mankind?

VI.
'What then has rais'd my glory to such height,
Thus happy plac'd in bosom of the main!
'Tis commerce, arts; 'tis freedom, law, and right,
Under a patriot monarch's equal reign!
Why will ye not, my sons, such Prince obey,
Who joins his interests to your own,
While mercy, truth, and law support his sway:—
No tyrant king, no despot fierce, is he,
But by mild justice rules alone,
The tenderest father of a people free!—
Think, oh my sons, on all your glories past,
Your praise, your honour, your high war-like pride,
Your ancient glorious deeds in freedom's cause,
O'er Europe spread, and all the world beside!
Your present bliss, your liberty and laws!
While wealth flows on you in each coming tide!
Think, think on these, nor heed who cry Reform,
Who soon on Britain's land would call a hideous storm!

VII.
'Rather, my sons, enjoy your present ease!
Your Sov'reign's gentle sway, your righteous laws!
Nor trust the arts of those, whom naught can please,
Save the vile counsels of a wretched cause:—
A cause, which to your gates would sudden bring
Rapine and ruin, spoil, and war's annoy,
To shed your noblest blood, to kill your king;
To poison each domestic joy,
'Gainst father arm the son, 'gainst husband wife,
Break every bond of social life,
And all the polish'd arts of heav'n-born Peace destroy!

VIII.
'My sons, on wiser schemes your thoughts employ,
Than thus o'erturn th' old system of your land,
Approv'd of Heaven, and all so wisely plann'd,
For which your fathers fought, for which they bled!
The fabric fair of your blest commonweal,
As if it broken were, why need you heal,
Or try to build a goodlier in its stead?
Ah no! with rash unhallow'd hands forbear
To touch its stout and venerable frame!
Its grandeur, age, and well-try'd strength revere!
Nor seek with all unprofitable aim
To mar — nay not to mend that glorious pile,
Under whose sheltering wings my fav'rite Isle,
For many a day such matchless bliss hath known,
Ev'n from the meanest cottage to the throne?
While high and low, and rich and poor,
Enjoy peculiar bliss, their life and lot secure!

IX.
'Think on yon ruin'd kingdom's hapless lot,
Her monarch, (wretched monarch!) now no more!
Her arts, her sciences, her laws forgot,
Faction and Anarchy rule all her shore!
How art thou fallen, proud Gallia, past our thought!
Yet haughtier despots now thy land pervade!
Fell ruffians under Faction's wild controul,
Would fain o'er Europe wide their havock spread,
And under freedom's name their conquests roll!
Resist, my land, resist their ruffian boast,
To shake thy glorious throne, thy laws divine!
Call forth your naval power, your martial host,
And trust in heav'n above its aid to join,
To drive such Atheists from the earth away,
All gathering clouds disperse, and bring us back the day!'