RECITATIVO.
When the great Julius on BRITANNIA’s
Strand
First leap’d, He cry’d, Thou sweet, delight-
ful Land!
‘Tis Caesar tells thee, He must thee command.
Brave Heroe! the pleas’d Legions shout around;
Brave Heroe! all the list’ning Clifts resound:
Thy Equal in no future Age shall rise:
One Caesar rule the Earth, one Jove the Skies!

AIR.
Vales of Pleasure are her Vales,
Peaceful smile her silent Dales.
Smoothly flow her chrystal Floods,
Verdant rise her shady Woods.
Nor let fam’d Olympus dare
With Albion’s Mountains to compare:
Tho’, big with fabl’d Gods, he shrouds
His lofty Head amid’ the Clouds.

RECITATIVO.
Straight from a hallow’d Grove there sprung,
Wreath’d with an acorn’d Crown of Oak,
The ruling Druid of the Throng,
And thus the hoary Phrophet spoke.
“Caesar! Wilt thou lend an Ear?
“Thow, the boasted Pride of Rome!
“Truths ungrateful can’st thou bear,
“And not tremble at thy Doom?

AIR.
The Soldiers, with rash Fury fir’d,
No Foresight from the Seer desir’d;
Not Him, as sacred Priest, rever’d,
Nor all his threat’n’d Dangers fear’d;
Swift had he felt a mangl’d Death
For his mis-tim’d, prophetic Breath:
But Caesar hear the whisper’d Ruin run
Thro’ all the Cohorts, e’er the Crime was done;
And with one awful, Roman Look,
Their impious Conspiration broke,
And silent, more than speaking, spoke;
Then greatly bad the daring Bard sing on.

RECITATIVO.
“Will wild Ambition know no Bound?
With heav’d-up Hands the Druid cry’d.
“Thou, Caesar, now shin’st in thy Pride;
“Thy Conquests, Warrior, are renown’d:
“Enough! ----- Would’st thou be deify’d?
“Proud Mortal, know! ------ the fatal Ides shall come,
“When thou thy self shalt bleed for bleeding Rome.

AIR.
“Tho’ thy flatt’ring Minions tell thee,
“None can rise, who shall excell thee;
“In revolving Years, believe me,
“(Heroe! I will not deceive thee)
“:From distant, German Climes, shall rise
“A Heroe, more, than Julius, Wise;
“More Good, more Prais’d, more truly Great,
“Courted to sway BRITANNIA’S State:
“Such are the fix’d Decress of Fate.
The Priest, the Bard, the Prophet then withdrew,
And to the thickest, Sylvan Covert flew.

CHORUS.
Britons! The promis’d Blessing you behold,
So many finish’d Centuries foretold.
Inhuman Caesar strove to chain Mankind;
Your gen’rous Monarch labours to unbind.
That, to himself with Joy saw Altars rais’d;
This, blushes ev’n to hear his Merit prais’d.
He owns his Glories to the Pow’r Divine;
Asks but his People’s Love, and not a Shrine.
Caesar records his Fame from captive Lands,
But GEORGE from rescu’d Kingdoms His demands.
Europe’s Firm Peace is now his glorious Aim;
The Love of Peace from Heav’n derives its Flame:
Hush’d was the World, when the Messiah came.