Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail? And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke? Bereave a nation of its rights revered, Of all to morals sacred and endear’d? And shall they tamely liberty resign, The soul of life, the source of bliss divine? Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind, In chains of adamant, the noble mind? Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear-- Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career! No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, Then bid thy legions all their power combine! Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn! Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field, The sword of Britain and of truth to wield! Still prompt the injured to defend and save, Appal the despot, and assist the brave; Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, The cause of Justice and Castile to aid! Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name, Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame; Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead, By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled; By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain, By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain; By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son! By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime, Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime; Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise A deathless monument to future days! Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise, Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies! Transcend the fairest names in history’s page, The brightest actions of a former age; The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, And bid oppression fall--to rise no more! Then soon returning to your native isle, May love and beauty hail you with their smile; For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath, And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe! Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage? Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage? When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign, Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again? Not till the despot’s dread career is closed, And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed!