Then too,‘ tis said, an hoary pile, ‘ Midst the green navel of our isle, Thy shrine in some religious wood, O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet Were wont thy form celestial meet: Though now with hopeless toil we trace Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tresséd Dane, Or Roman's self o'erturn' d the fane, Or in what heaven-left age it fell, ‘ Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse, Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, Paving the light embroider'd sky,
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains, The beauteous model still remains. There, happier than in islands blest, Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story, In warlike weeds, retired in glory, Hear their consorted Druids sing Their triumphs to the immortal string.
How may the poet now unfold What never tongue or numbers told? How learn delighted, and amazed, What hands unknown that fabric raised?
Even now before his favour'd eyes, In gothic pride, it seems to rise! Yet Græcia's graceful orders join, Majestic through the mix'd design:
The secret builder knew to choose Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains, When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight May ever hang with fresh delight, And, graved with some prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band, That near her inmost altar stand! Now soothe her to her blissful train Blithe Concord's social form to gain;
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep Even Anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep; Before whose breathing bosom's balm Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm:
Her let our sires and matrons hoar Welcome to Briton's ravaged shore; Our youths, enamour'd of the fair, Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound, The nations shout to her around, O how supremely art thou blest, Thou, lady — thou shalt rule the west!
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