Ode for the New-year, 1761

N Time, rejoice! round sorrow twist thy chain! For thou art young, thou art new-born again. 2Bid ev'ry deep-mouth'd cannon roar, 2And wake to mirth the sleeping shore, 2And let the shrill tongu'd trumpet's note 2On eccho's airy bosom float. To bless and to adorn the infant year, Bring in the van brisk health, and riches in the rear.

Tho' death has laid thy mighty monarch low, And swell'd the tide of universal woe, 2Yet cease, ah! cease to mourn, for all 2Must wait the tyrant's final call. 2There's no reversing his decree 2For he shall vanquish even thee. Behold another George ascends the throne, Who, like his fire, shall reign unrivall'd and alone.

Thus, when by heaven's unalterable laws The pale-ey'd star of eve its flame withdraws, 2Succeeds a space of gloomy night, 2And nature weeps the loss of light. 2She droops her dark-bound front awhile, 2But soon renews her lovely smile; When Heos chases ev'ry fear away, Throws night behind his orb, and dawns the coming day.

Tell me, prophetic Time! I sue to thee; And tho' a Briton, bend my pliant knee. 2To rise I never will presame, 2Till thou hast spoke my country's doom. 2"Shall triumph-looking peace again 2"Direct her dove to Albion’s plain." "And where abroad the cypress rears its head, "Say! shall she plant the blooming olive in its stead?

"Say, shall my Prince, who now the sceptre wields, "Restore the harvest to Germania’s fields! 2"Shall he chastise fierce Gallia’s pride, 2"And bid her, insolence subside; 2"And on some future, happy day, 2"Wipe every orphan's tear away, "Unlock the urn, where Plenty keeps her store, "And bid united legions rest, and war no more.

"It shall be so, "thou say'st" it shall be so, "Nor need thy country dread th' invading foe; 2"For chid by thy new Monarch, now 2"Old Mars himself to him shall bow. 2"Peace, with her gentle dove, again, 2"Shall settle on Britannia’s plain; "And where abroad the cypress rears its head, "She there shall plant the blooming olive in its stead.

"Thy native Prince, who now the sceptre wields, "Shall pour the harvest o'er Germania’s fields, 2"The rage of Gallia shall deride, 2"And clip the pinions of her pride; 2"He soon too, on some happy day, 2"Shall wipe each orphan's tear away; "Ope wide the urn where Plenty locks her store; "Bid Freedom soar aloft, and nations war no more."

2Britons, one and all come hither, 2Whither do ye fly? ah, whither! 2Stop, and hear the voice of Time 2Sounding blessings on your clime.

2Touch the many chorded lyre, 2Higher swell the tone, and higher; 2Trill the flute, the viol sweep, 2Lulling echo fast asleep.

2Sons of industry and labour, 2Blow the pipe, and beat the tabor, 2And let all unite the strain, 2"Time is now grown young again."