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Muse, who art quick to fire
At the least noble thing,
And frankest praise to bring
Upon the quivering lyre,
Why art thou slow to sing
Now when the world beclouds
With battle, such as shrouds
Earth in a mist of tears?
For want of heart belike,
While thunder sings afar
And even the bravest fears.
Seek'st thou a theme for song
No fears can ever wrong,
No tears can tarnish? Strike
And sing Britannia.
2
Britannia the fair,
Whom oceans girdle round,
With hill and valley crowned,
And purest wash of air
From her Atlantic bound.
What heaths so fresh as hers
With blossom? and how stirs
The soft wind in her pines.
Earth's fairest isle, 'tis said,
Where all things lovely are.
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