Classic Poem

He comes, he comes, the Hero comes:
Sound, sound your Trumpets, beat your Drums:
From port to port let Cannon roar
Howe's welcome to this western Shore!

Britannia's dauntless Sons appear;
For Ages past renown'd in War.
The Sword they draw, the Lance they wield,
Now Glory calls them to the Field.

With laurels crown'd triumphant see
Britannia's Genius, Victory:
With her, fair Freedom sits in State,
And Mercy smiles, serenely great.

My Sons, Britannia cries — forbear:
Deluded Sons, nor urge the War.
What Justice asks, is all your own;
For Justice yet supports my Throne.

Would you be free? — be Freedom thine:
Britannia bends at Freedom's shrine.
Is Wealth your Wish? — that Wealth possess,
For Britain's King delights to bless.

Be happy still, nor dare explore
With moon-struck Guides the heights of Pow'r:
For Pow'r is mine, and flows from me
In temper'd Streams of Liberty.

With me connected, stand secure
While Sun or Moon or Stars endure:
And when the World is wrapt in Fire,
This mighty Empire last expire.