But worse than death it pains my soul to see
The Lord of Ruin, by wild Uproar led,
Hell’s first-born, Anarchy, exalt his head,
And seize thy throne, and bid us bow the knee!
What though his iron sceptre, blood-imbrued,
Crush half the nations with resistless might;
Never shall this firm spirit be subdued:
In chains, in exile, still the chanted rite,
O Liberty! to thee shall be renew’d:
O still be sea-girt Albion thy delight! D.