Classic Poem

Imperial Britain, on her sea-girt throne,
In resplendent glory shone;
Firm on her rock she sat,
Sublime in antique state,
With mystic laurel deck'd;
With bright illustrious trophies crown'd,
While haughty nations bow submissive round;
Yet with maternal tears she dews the ground,
For her rude progeny, who prove
Truants to duty — glory — love;
Who madly strive, and rashly dare,
The honours from her brow to tear;
Yet anxious still — still toiling to sustain
Her rights — their glories o'er the subject main,
Her care-fraught bosom heav'd;
Kindly solicitous she inly griev'd
Their follies to explore;
Yet hail'd the virtues of her darling shore.

AIR.

Thus sweet April's vernal tears
By bright'ning gleams are chas'd away;
In fairer tints each flower appears
When Phaebus gilds the doubtful day.

RECITATIVE.

Ah stop! she cry'd, your wild career;
Nor longer pant in Folly's train;
Your country's Genius will appear,
Bright Honour still asserts her reign.

Although in Fashion's giddy maze
On light fantastic toe ye tread;
Yet Reason startled stops to gaze,
Nor follows there though Britons lead.

AIR.

Before your native virtue's beam,
Folly's light vapours fade away;
When sparks etherial brightly stream,
Swiftly obscuring clouds decay.

SONG.

Soft Pity still your bosoms swelling,
Her lenient balm around you spread;
You fly to chear the mourner's dwelling,
Protective shield the houseless head;

With hand benign each child of woe
From meagre Want's pale gripe release;
You make the orphan's bosom glow,
And soothe his throbbing heart to peace;

No more the poignant pangs to fee
Of Poverty's life-chilling train;
No more with desperate hand to steal,
But glorious bulwarks of my reign.

And are those godlike virtues given
To you, my jarring sons, in vain?
Shall Britons spurn the gifts of Heaven,
And rudely burst each social chain?

No no! let real patriots round me
Now stronger twine the cords of love;
For that's the only chain can hold ye,
In peace — in war — your strength 'twill prove.

CHORUS.

Awake — Arouse your genuine glory,
Assert your origin divine;
Transmit to endless fame your story,
And in your country's annals shine.

Oft rugged England, fam'd in arms,
Has shook the world with dread alarms,
Perfidious France has oft brought low,
While proud Iberia felt each blow:
When sacred Union's plastic band
Diffus'd its blessings round the land,
From East to West her blazon'd name
Has swell'd the loudest trump of Fame.
Then ev'ry son with filial pride
Was to his parent Britain ty'd,
Her rights with jealous care preserv'd,
Nor from the glorious duty swerv'd.
And are those golden aera's fled?
Must England bow her laurel'd head?
Forbid it, Genius of our isle!
Dart through this gloom thy potent smile,
For sure thy pow'r can light restore,
And radiant gild thy sea-girt shore;
There let thy spreading banners gay
Still firmly shield each rocky way,
Shew hostile nations, to their cost,
Thy England's prowess is not lost.