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
Yet beauty there not mines
Strength; for no cliff is there
No headland calmly fair
But fringed with wild sprays wed
To shout Britannia.
3
But his lips burst aflower
To praise Britannia.
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