Britain first at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian Angels sung this strain,
Britannia, Britannia rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!
The Nations (not so blest as thee)
Must in their turns to Tyrants fall,
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
more majestick shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
haughty Tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down,
Will but arouze thy gen'rous flame,
But work their woe, and thy renown.
thee belongs the rural reign,
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject Main,
And ev'ry shore it circles thine.
Muses still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coasts repair; Blest Isle!
With matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guide the Fair.