There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace;
With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms,
And calls from stone expression’s breathing forms.
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o’erflows its bound,
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round,
Bid Ceres laugh o’er waste and sterile sands,
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands.
Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies!
To thee shall Britain’s grateful incense rise.