Thy foes suc­ceed­ing times shall own,
Long as the sun and wax­ing moon,
With var­ied light, in swift ca­reer,
Alternate guide the circ­ling year.

The Son from Heav’n His grace shall pour,
Delightful as the co­pi­ous show­er,
Whose drops re­fresh the new-shorn plain,
And swell with life the food­ful grain.

His care the just aloft shall raise,
Nor fair pros­per­ity His days
Desist to crown, till round the pole,
The mea­sured months shall cease to roll.

From sea to sea His wide comm­and
Shall reach, and from Eu­phra­tes’ strand
Through realms of var­ious tongue ex­tend,
Far as to earth’s re­mot­est end.

To Him the de­sert tribes shall kneel;
His foes, that on their con­quer­ing steel
Reposed ere while their fran­tic trust,
Shall pro­strate fall, and lick the dust.