She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?
As Csesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his party-coloured mind, But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid;
Happy if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain, A power must it maintain.