Loose o’er his shoulders hung the slackened bow,
Renowned in song, the terror of the foe!
The sword that oft the barbarous North defy’d,
The scourge of tyrants! glittered by his side:
Clad in refulgent arms in battle won,
The George emblazoned on his corselet shone;
Fast by his side was seen a golden lyre,
Pregnant with numbers of eternal fire;
Whose strings unlock the witches’ midnight spell,
Or waft rapt fancy through the gulphs of hell: