Classic Poem

Blow ye the trumpet abroad o'er the sea,
Britannia hath triumph'd—the Bondman is free;
Sing—for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His scourges and fetters, all clotted with blood,
Are wrench'd from his grasp;—for the word was but spoken,
And fetters and scourges were sunk in the flood;
Blow ye the trumpet abroad o'er the sea,
Britannia hath triumph'd—the Bondman is free.

Hail to Britannia—fair Liberty's isle!
Her frown quail'd the tyrants, the slave caught her smile;
Fly on the winds to tell Afric the story,
Say to the mother of mourners—“Rejoice!”
Britannia went forth, in the might of her glory,
And slaves sprung to men at the sound of her voice;
Praise to the God of our fathers;—'t was he—
JEHOVAH—who triumph'd, Britannia! by thee.