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This thy present happy lot
Ever-busy Time prepares;
RULE BRITANNIA When Britain first at Heaven's command
Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land,
And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
The dread and envy of them all. 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. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;
All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown. 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 ! 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 ! Britannia
rules the waves ! Britons never shall be slaves !
Confusion on thy banners wait !
They mock the air with idle state.
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
He wound with toilsome march his long array :Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; “To arms !' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering
On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : ‘Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ;
• Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep ; They do not sleep;
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit ; They linger yet,
Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
• Weave the warp and weave the woof
The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
The characters of hell to trace.
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
A tear to grace his obsequies.
He rests among the dead.
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes :
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
• Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse ?
Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
• Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof; The thread is spun ;) Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove ; The work is done ;)
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ?
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail :All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail !
'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
What strains of vocal transport round her play?
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.
• The verse adorn again
Fierce War and faithful Love
In buskin'd measures move
Gales from blooming Eden bear,
And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood
And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care ;
To triumph and to die are mine.' -He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.