 Fixed are the eyes of nations on the scales, For then their hopes Columbia's arm prevails. Anon Britannia droops the pensive head, While round increased the rising hills of dead. Ah, cruel blindness to Columbia's state, Laments thy thirst of boundless power too late. Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side, Thy every action let the goddess guide. A crown, a mansion, a throne that shine, With gold unfading, Washington be thine.