Then shalt thou, George, the song approve,
O British-born! O Freedom's sacred heir!
O thou, whom all the Graces love,
Religion's boast, and Virtue's darling care!
Fain would the Muse attempt thy various praise,
But ah, in vain! — thro' Ida's bowers
With dubious foot th' astonish'd woodman strays;
Where shall his work begin? — Ye sylvan Powers
Direct the blow; here oaks aspiring rise,
There, Monarchs of the grove, tall cedars prop the skies.