ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom even our joys provoke, The fiend of nature join'd his yoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey; Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. I see recoil his sable steeds, That bore him swift to salvage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; O maid, for all thy love to Britain shown, Where Justice bars her iron tower, To thee we build a roseate bower; Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne!