Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,
And fly where’er thy mandate bids them steer,
To Pleasure’s path, or Glory’s bright career.
Primeval Hope, the Aönian Muses say,
When Man and Nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below,
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car,