Roving through Life's uncertain ways,

Again my friend removes,

From Stowe's delightful garden's maze,

Elysian fields and groves;

 

To where, with venerable pride,

Religion's holy fane,

Does o'er her ancient Sons preside

With mild, yet aweful reign;

 

In Verulam her Temple rose,

And still throughout the land,

The stream of pure devotion flows

At her divine command.

 

O! not like lost and guilty France,

On whose polluted soil,

Around Rebellion's Dæmons dance,

And War and Famine spoil.

 

No Spencer there with god-like love,

Bids want and mis'ry cease:

Nor, through the haunts where wretches rove,

Dispenses joy and peace:

 

But, all her native glory fled,

Her noblest Sons withdrawn,

Revenge by direst Furies led,

Now riots o'er the lawn —

 

Then bless thy lot, in Britain's Isle,

To lead secure thy days,

Where Industry still bids thee smile,

And ev'ry toil repays.

 

Where Freedom's all-protecting hand

Shall guard thy lowly shed:

And ever through the happy land

Her equal blessings spread.

 

Her Cares to Cot and Throne extend,

On all alike she smiles;

And here the Universal Friend

Each weary hour beguiles.

 

Here free from Superstition's pow'r,

Or Tyrant's angry frown,

Enjoy, my friend, the passing hour,

And all thy blessings own.

 

Let no "fantastic terrors" rise

Those blessings to annoy;

And Happiness, so rare a prize,

No groundless fears destroy.