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When Britain first at Heav'n's command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain;
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never shall be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee,
Shall in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
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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.
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Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame,
All their attempts to bend thee down;
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
But work their woe, and thy renown.
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To thee belongs the rural reign,
They cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
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The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guide the fair.
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