Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of your blood May children of our children say, 'Her court was pure; her life serene; 'And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet 'By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.' |