Goddess, all thy powers diffuse!
And thou, genuine BRITISH MUSE,
Nurs'd amid stthe Druids old,
Where Deva's wizard waters roll'd,
Thou, that bear'st the golden key
To unlock eternity,
Summon thy poetic guard —
Britain still has many a bard,
Whom, when time and death shall join
T' expand the ore, and stamp the coin,
Late posterity shall own
Lineal to the Muse's throne —
Bid them leave th' inglorious theme
Of fabled shade, or haunted stream.
In the daisy-painted mead
'Tis to peace we tune the reed;
But when War's tremendous roar
Shakes the isle from shore to shore,
Every bard of purer fire
Tyrtaeus-like should grasp the lyre;
Wake with verse the hardy deed,
Or in the generous strife like SIDNEY bleed.