From thee derived, Eternal King,
To thee our noblest powers we bring:
O, may thy hand direct our wandering way!
O, bid thy light arise, and chase the clouds away!
Lorenzo de Medici.
Ye who spurn His righteous sway,
Yet, oh yet, He spares your breath;
Yet His hand, averse to slay,
Balances the bolt of death.
Ere that dreadful bolt descends,