Land where every vale and mountain    Echoes to immortal strains, Light is round thy stream and fountain,    Light on all thy plains. Never shall thy glory set; Thou shalt be our beacon yet. […] And then an altar in thy court    I’ll offer, decked with gold; And there thy servants shall resort,    Thy doves be bought and sold!” […] Welcome to thy country’s shore,    Thou king’s son girt with glory; And live in song forevermore    The pride of Attic story! […] “Nay let me die ere to thy charms    I lend,” saith she, “an ear again.