Hymn to Liberty

Sister of JOVE, aethereal flame! Who bid'st the livid lightnings roll, Mov'st to soft harps the sphery frame, And wak'st to extacy the soul! O parent—source of every good, Arrang'd thro' ev'ry nice degree, How few have justly understood Those laws of order fram'd by thee? For thee the Poet's strain shall flow, Inspirer of the vocal strings! And Philomel forget her woe, To praise thee by whose aid she sings! For thee gay Zephyr waves his plume! Thine are the od'rous gifts he bears; Thy hours unlock each varying bloom, And wake to life the laughing years! Thy mail of old did Greece invest, What time the haughty Persian fled, Thy terrors no ded from her crest, When Rome rais'd high her awful head! O who are now the chosen race For whom thou leav'st thy lucid sphere? To whom thou giv'st thy radiant face To see, thy gorgeous crown to wear? In what fair isle dost thou prolong, To make a favour'd nation blest, The high resolve, the Poet's song, The raptures of th' extatic breast? 'Tis BRITAIN thy best influence owns, And dumb respect and slavish fear, Bids the mind waft to eastern thrones! She happier far, while thou art near .