Strophe I

Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre, Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove, List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire; The ling’ring sounds that yet respire Waked by the breezes of the Western main; And bring some high and solemn strain, Such as was heard that solemn day When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty Struck on the magic harp her dying song.— Dealing vengeance on her foes, The mortal Genius of battle rose, And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.