Page:Songs of England vol 01.djvu/207

 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 bend thee down, Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame, To work their woe, and 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 it circles, 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.