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."

James Thomson

Hymn on Solitude

Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude,

Companion of the wise and good,

But from whose holy piercing eye

The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,

And listen to thy whispered talk,

Which innocence and truth imparts,

And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,

And still in every shape you please.

Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,

A lone philosopher you seem;

Now quick from hill to vale you fly,

And now you sweep the vaulted sky;

A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,

And warble forth your oaten strain;

A lover now, with all the grace

Of that sweet passion in your face;

Then, calmed to friendship, you assume

The gentle looking Hertford's bloom,

As, with her Musidora, she

(Her Musidora fond of thee)

Amid the long-withdrawing vale

Awakes the rivalled nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,

Just as the dew-bent rose is born;

And, while meridian fervors beat,

Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;

But chief, when evening scenes decay

And the faint landscape swims away,

Thine is the doubtful soft decline,

And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,

Thy virtues of the sage and swain--

Plain Innocence, in white arrayed,

Before thee lifts her fearless head;

Religion's beams around thee shine

And cheer thy glooms with light divine;

About thee sports sweet Liberty,

And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell,

And in thy deep recesses dwell!

Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,

When Meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes

Where London's spiry turrets rise,

Think of its crimes, it cares, its pain,

Then shield me in the woods again.

James Thomson