The Britons banished from our shore,
Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last,
And hostile nations rage no more;
From fields of death the weary swain
Returning, seeks his native plain.
In every vale she smiles serene,
Freedom’s bright stars more radiant rise,
New charms she adds to every scene,
Her brighter sun illumes our skies.
Remotest realms admiring stand,