May my song soften, as thy daughters I, Britannia, hail! for beauty is their own, The feeling heart, simplicity of life, And elegance, and taste; the faultless form, Shap'd by the hand of harmony; the cheek, Where the live crimson, through the native white Soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, And every nameless grace; the parted lip, Like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew, Breathing delight; and, under flowing jet, Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown, The neck slight-shaded, and the swelling breast, The look resistless, piercing to the soul, And by the soul informed, when dress'd in love She sits high-smiling in the conscious eye.
Island of bliss! amid the subject seas That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, At once the wonder, terror, and delight Of distant nations; whose remotest shore Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm; Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave.
O Thou by whose almighty nod the scale Of empire rises, or alternate falls, Send forth the saving virtues round the land, In bright patrol: white peace, and social love; The tender-looking charity, intent On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles Undaunted truth, and dignity of mind; Courage compos'd, and keen; sound temperance, Healthful in heart and look; clear chastity, With blushes reddening as she moves along, Disorder'd at the deep regard she draws; Rough industry; activity untir'd, With copious life inform'd, and all awake; While in the radiant front, superior shines That first paternal virtue, public zeal-- Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey, And, ever musing on the common weal, Still labors glorious with some great design.
Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train, In all their pomp attend his setting throne. Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now As if his weary chariot sought the bowers Of Amphitritè and her tending nymphs, (So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb; Now half immers'd; and now a golden curve; Gives one bright glance, then total disappears Forever running an enchanted round, Passes the day, deceitful, vain, and void; As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain, This moment hurrying wild the impassion'd soul, The next in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him, The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank: A sight of horror to the cruel wretch Who, all day long in sordid pleasure roll'd, Himself an useless load, has squander'd vile, Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheer'd A drooping family of modest worth. But to the generous still-improving mind, That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy, Diffusing kind beneficence around, Boastless, as now descends the silent dew-- To him the long review of order'd life Is inward rapture, only to be felt.