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So bold a theme might well demandOh, wond'rous Scott! thy matchless hand.
The humbled pow'rs of Europe own Your sov'reign empire on the sea;'Tis there you rear Britannia's throne, And stamp her 'mong the nations free,The roaring deep, the 'whelming storm, Ne'er yet could British courage quell;For still ye worshipp'd Freedom's form, And conquer'd in her cause, or fell;And Ocean's waters, as they roll,Tell of your fame from pole to pole.
And turn our view to elder time, When Britain's glory Alfred plann'd;And rear'd a bulwark thus sublime, To centinel her happy land:—Ob, mighty warrior! mighty king! How bright on gothic darkness roseThy soaring genius' dazzling wing, And shook down ruin on thy foes—Ordain'd to wield, oh, best of men!The sword, the sceptre, and the pen.
In later years, Iberia's pow'r In vain its boasted strength display'd;She fled from Britain's guarded shore, All vanquish'd, ruin'd, and dismay'd:Then pressing on th' astonish'd view, What scenes of naval glories glide!
