vaulted sky;

A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,

And warble forth your oaten strain;

A lover now, with all the grace

Of that sweet passion in your face:

Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume

The gentle-looking Hertford’s bloom,

As, with her Musidora, she,

(Her Musidora fond of thee)

Amid the long withdrawing vale,

Awakes the rival’d nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,

Just as the dew-bent rose is born;

And while meridian fervours beat,

Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;

But chief, when evening scenes decay,

And the faint landskip swims away,

Thine is the doubtful soft decline,

And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,

The virtues of the sage, and swain;

Plain Innocence in white array’d,

Before thee lifts her fearless head:

Religion’s beams around thee shine,

And cheer thy glooms with light divine:

About thee sports sweet Liberty;

And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!

And in thy deep recesses dwell!

Perhaps from Norwood’s oak-clad hill,

When meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes

Where London’s spiry turrets rise,

Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,

Then shield me in the woods again.

An Ode on Aeolus’s Harp

Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove,

Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid!

With what soft woe they thrill the lover’s heart!

Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid

Who died of love these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;

Or he, the sacred Bard, who sat alone

In the drear waste and wept his people’s woes.

Such was the song which Zion’s children sung

When by Euphrates’ stream they made their plaint;

And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir

Through Heaven’s high dome their awful anthem raise;

Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,

Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined,

For till you cease my muse forgets to sing.

Rule Britannia

When Britain first, at heaven’s command,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And Guardian Angels sang this strain:

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall,

While thou shalt flourish great and free:

The dread and envy of them all.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke,

As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;

All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame,

But work their woe and thy renown.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles, thine.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coasts repair.

Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned,

And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves!

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Джеймс Томсон (1700–1748)

Гимн

Четыре времена, в пременах ежегодных,

Ничто иное суть, как в разных видах Бог.

Вращающийся год, Отец наш всемогущий,

Исполнен весь Тебя. Приятною весной

Повсюду красота Твоя, Господь, сияет,

И нежность и любовь Твоя везде видна.

Краснеются поля, бальзамом воздух дышит,

И эхо по горам разносится, звучит;

С улыбкою леса главу свою подъемлют —

Веселием живут все чувства и сердца.

Грядет к нам в летних днях Твоя, о Боже! слава;

Повсюду на земле блистает свет и жар;

От солнца Твоего лиется совершенство

На полнящийся год; и часто к нам Твой глас,

Свод неба потряся, вещает в страшных громах;

И часто на заре, в средине жарких дней,

В тенистом вечеру, по рощам и потокам,

Приятно шепчет он в прохладном ветерке.

В обильной осени Твоя безмерна благость

И милость без конца бывает нам явна,

Всеобще празднество для тварей учреждая.

Зимою страшен Ты! Там бури, облака

Свивая вкруг себя, гоняя вьюгу вьюгой,

В величественной тьме