Ode to M E R C Y

S T R O P H E.

O THOU, who sit'st a smiling Bride
    By Valour's arm'd and awful Side,
Gentlest of Sky-born Forms, and best ador'd:
    Who oft with Songs, divine to hear,
    Win'st from his fatal Grasp the Spear,
And hid'st in Wreaths of Flow'rs his bloodless Sword!
    Thou who, amidst the deathful Field,
    By Godlike Chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy Bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him the Youth who sinks to Ground:
    See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded Hands,
    Before thy Shrine my Country's Genius stands,
And decks thy Altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a Wound!

A N T I S T R O P H E.

    When he whom ev'n our Joys provoke,
    The Fiend of Nature join'd his Yoke,
And rush'd in Wrath to make our Isle his Prey,
    Thy Form, from out thy sweet Abode,
    O'ertook Him on his blasted Road,
And stop'd his Wheels, and look'd his Rage away.
      I see recoil his sable Steeds,
    That bore Him swift to Salvage Deeds,
Thy tender melting Eyes they own;
O Maid, for all thy Love to Britain shown,
    Where Justice bars her Iron Tow'r,
    To Thee we build a roseate Bow'r,
Thou, Thou shalt rule our Queen, and share our Monarch's Throne!