With joy renew thy destin'd race,
And let the mighty months begin:
Let no ill omen cloud thy face,
Thro' all thy circle smile serene.
While the stern ministers of fate
Watchful o'er the pale Lutetia wait.
To grieve the Gaul's perfidious head;
The hours, thy offspring heav'nly fair,
Their whitest wings should ever wear,
And gentle joys on Albion shed.