The wand’ring sailors, pale with fear,
For thee the gods implore,
When the tempestuous sea runs high
And when through all the dark, benighted sky
No friendly moon or stars appear,
To guide their steerage to the shore:
For thee the weary soldier prays,
Furious in fight the sons of Thrace,
And Medes, that wear majestic by their side
A full-charg’d quiver’s decent pride,