And when late from your throne Heaven’s call you attend
In peace let your crown in the next head descend.
Let no sham pretences give birth to a guilt
Which would injure the blood of the Martyr was spilt.

Ah! had we, Sir, the pow’r of art
To grant the wishes of our heart,
Your long and glorious reign should be
One entire piece of harmony;
No day should an ill aspect wear,
But smooth, as seas when calms appear.
All hearts should smile, as at that hour
When you from exile blest our shore,
And the ill omens o’er us plac’d
Should vanish with the time that’s past.

Then would we conclude that our Isle, which of old
Was the Fortunate call’d, had her name but foretold
By some learned bard, who in times past foreknew
How in ages to come she’d be happy in you.

Happy, while all her neighbours bled,
Their countries harrass’d and untill’d;
When Peace to your for shelter fled,
Her garners with rich plenty fill’d;
When all the blessings of her train
Were at her feet an off’ring laid;
When fearless she did plough the main
And reap rich harvests of her trade.

So happily still your counsels employ,
More blessings than all the whole world we enjoy;
But amidst all our stores, some who surfeit on peace
The infection had spread of a mortal disease:
To the plague of rebellion the mischief was growing,
And the life of the State to your conduct is owing.

These had by their ill usage drove
The beauteous Nymph long since away,
Had she not, vanquish’d by your love,
Charm’d in your soft embraces lay.
But these no more shall dare repine,
Nor shall she ever hence remove,
But toally now her heart resign,
And always to your constant prove.

Britannia shall now her large empire bestride,
And over the sea she unrivall’d shall ride;
Sole Empress, she the cast flood shall command,
And awe the great blustering Hectors at land.
Thus strongly secur’d, mighty Sir, on your throne,
By all nations fear’d, and belov’d of your own,
If of Heaven we could such a bounty obtain,
From our own stock of years we would lengthen your reign.