Swift the wing'd Hours shall urge their stealing way,
Nor oft the waning moon shall know decay
Ere a new race shall rise of scepter'd kings.
From thee, Strelisian Fair, the future hero springs.
See, the long lines of royal youths extend,
To Britain's throne new subjects bend;
Where'er her glittering standards rise,
In other seas, in other skies,
Shall spread the godlike fame of mildest victories.
Auspicious youths be born!
Arise! O haste! your native soil adorn!
Not valorous arms alone
Shall guard the regal throne;
But shining arts, and holy laws,
And ancient Freedom's well-defended cause,
Shall lift secure your praise sublime
Thro' all the radiant paths of time.
On Dorubernian cliffs the Muse hath told,
Prophetic child of Druids old,
Whereon she sits, and hears from either pole
In every wind victorious thunders roll.