  O England, my country! the land of the free; Thou queen of the ocean, most fair! The myrtle and laurel belong unto thee; To science and liberty dear: When dark clouds of slavery hung o’er the world, And Europe was buried in night, Midst thee, was the standard of freedom unfurl’d, Religion o’er thee shed her light. Should conquest allure thee; aggression provoke; How terrible art thou array’d! But mercy descends, as thy arm gives the stroke, To heal the deep wounds war has made. The light of the nations, my country! art thou; A beacon that cheers the world round; Thy name is a refuge—in it monarchs hide, And earth’s thousand realms own its sound. Go search the bright record of deeds which belongs To France, or to Spain’s proudest days, Their glory was built on humanity’s wrongs, Their fame was the lightning’s fierce blaze: But England! thy glory is rais’d on true worth, And fair, as it beams o’er the wave, Sheds light which illumines the crowns of the earth, And cheers e’en the hut of the slave. |
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