THOU standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand 

Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. 

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 

So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; 

Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; 

Like flames upon an altar-shrine, the sheaves; 

And, following thee, in thine ovation splendid, 

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden