In a Bithynian bark the Cretan waves;

Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near,

And unrelenting Dacians, fear:

The warlike sons of Italy;

Cities, and realms, and empires, worship Thee.

Mothers of barbarous monarchs dread,

And purple tyrants, lest thou tread

With spurning foot, and scatter round

The sculptured column on th’ encumbered ground;

And lest the fickle crowd should break