Sung to the harp in many a tale of yore,
That oft her rivers dyed with hostile gore.
Blue was her rocky shield; her piercing eye
Flash'd like the meteors of her native sky; 810
Her crest high-plumed, was rough with many a scar,
And o'er her helmet gleam'd the Northern Star.
The warrior youth appear'd of noble frame,
The hardy offspring of some Runic dame:
Loose o'er his shoulders hung the slacken'd bow,
Renown'd in song, the terror of the foe!
The sword that oft the barbarous north defied,
The scourge of tyrants! glitter'd by his side:
Clad in refulgent arms in battle won,
The George emblazon'd on his corslet shone; 820
Fast by his side was seen a golden lyre,
Pregnant with numbers of eternal fire;
Whose strings unlock the witches' midnight spell,
Or waft rapt fancy through the gulfs of hell:
Struck with contagion, kindling fancy hears
The songs of heaven, the music of the spheres!
Borne on Newtonian wing, through air she flies,
Where other suns to other systems rise.
These front the scene conspicuous; overhead
Albion's proud oak his filial branches spread: 830
While on the sea-beat shore obsequious stood,
Beneath their feet, the father of the flood:
Here the bold native of her cliffs above,
Perch'd by the martial maid the bird of Jove;
There on the watch, sagacious of his prey,
With eyes of fire, an English mastiff lay: