Nor blast the new-born year,
That anxious waits the Spring’s slow-shooting ray:
Nor deem that Albion’s honours cease to bloom.
With candid glance, th’ impartial Muse,
Invoked on this auspicious morn,
The present scans, the distant scene pursues,
And breaks Opinion’s speculative gloom:
Interpreter of ages yet unborn,
Full right she spells the characters of Fate,
That Albion still shall keep her wonted state!