Classic Poem

When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of her land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all:
Rule, Britania, & c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak:
Rule, Britannia, & c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to hurl thee down
Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame,
And work their woe--but thy renown:
Rule, Britannia, & c.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore encircle thine:
Rule, Britannia, & c.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
Rule, Britannia, & c.