Rule, Britannia!

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 blessed 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:     Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned,     And manly hearts to guard the fair.     "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;     Britons never will be slaves."