King of the floods, whom friendly stars ordain
To fold alternate in thy winding train,
The lofty palace and the fertile vale;
King of the floods, Britannia’s darling, hail!
Hail with the year so well begun,
And bid his each revolving sun,
Taught by thy streams, in smooth succession run.

From thy never-failing urn
Flowers, bloom and fair increase
With the seasons take their turn;
From thy tributary seas
Tides of various wealth attend thee;
Seas and seasons all befriend thee.

Here on thy banks , to mate the skies,
Augusta’s hallow’d domes arise;
And there thy ample bosom pours
Her numerous souls and floating towers;
Whose terrours late to vanquish’d Spain were known,
And Aetna shook with thunder not her own.

Fullest flags thou dost sustain,
While thy banks confine thy course;
Emblem of our Caesar’s reign,
Mingling clemency and force.

So may’st thou still, secur’d by distant wars,
Ne’er stain thy crystal with domestic jars:
As Caesar’s reign, to Britain ever dear,
Shall join with thee to bless the coming year.

On thy shady margin,
Care its load discharging,
Is lull’d to gentle rest:
Britain thus disarming,
Nor no more alarming,
Shall sleep on Caesar’s breast.

Sweet to distress is balmy sleep,
To sleep auspicious dreams,
Thy meadows, Thames, to feeding sheep,
To thirst, thy silver streams:
More sweet than all, the praise
Of Caesar’s golden days:
Caesar’s golden praise is sweeter;
Britain’s pleasure greater;
Still may Caesar’s reign excel;
Sweet the praise of reigning well.

CHORUS.

Gentle Janus, ever wait,
As now, on Britannia’s kindest fate;
Crown all our vows, and all thy gifts bestow;
Till Time no more renews his date,
And Thames forgets to flow.