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Poem	When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main; This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: "Rule, 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. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." 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, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." 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. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine: All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves." 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, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves."
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