Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/England, Europe's Glory

England, Europe's Glory.

There is a land amidst the waves Whose sons are famed in story,Who never were, or will be slaves, Nor shrink from death or glory!Then strike the harp, and bid it swell, With flowing bowl before ye,Here's to the land in which we dwell, To England, Europe's glory.

Blest land, beyond all lands afar, Encircled in the waters,With lion-hearted sons in war, And beauty's peerless daughters.Go ye, whose discontented hearts Disdain the joys before ye,Go, seek a home in foreign parts, Like England, Europe's glory.

Whether in sultry climes ye rove, A solitary stranger,Or seek the foreign fair one's love, Where lurk deceit and danger:Where will ye find domestic bliss, With social sweets before ye;A land so great, so good as this— Like England, Europe's glory?