Sacred from the foe
Are thy fair fields: athwart thy guardian prow
No bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand--
Yet say, my country, will the waves and wind
Obey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'd
To the sky's fickle faith, the pilot's wavering hand?
6 For, oh! may neither Fear nor stronger Love
(Love, by thy virtuous princes nobly won)
Thee, last of many wretched nations, move,
With mighty armies station'd round the throne
To trust thy safety. Then, farewell the claims
Of Freedom! Her proud records to the flames
Then bear, an offering at Ambition's shrine;
Whate'er thy ancient patriots dared demand
From furious John's, or faithless Charles' hand,
Or what great William seal'd for his adopted line.
7 But if thy sons be worthy of their name,
If liberal laws with liberal arts they prize,
Let them from conquest, and from servile shame,
In War's glad school their own protectors rise.
Ye chiefly, heirs of Albion's cultured plains,
Ye leaders of her bold and faithful swains,
Now not unequal to your birth be found;
The public voice bids arm your rural state,
Paternal hamlets for your ensigns wait,
And grange and fold prepare to pour their youth around.
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