In 1740, the Scots poet and dramatist James Thomson (1700–1748), with the English composer Thomas Arne, presented “Alfred,” a masque celebrating the life of the ninth-century Saxon king, at the country estate of the Prince of Wales. Although the rest of the masque has lapsed into obscurity, its musical finale, “Rule Britannia” has achieved an independent immortality. With its bouncing tetrameter quatrains set to Arne’s ebullient late-baroque score, it is in its way as irresistibly singable as Handel’s 1741 “Hallelujah Chorus.” 

Of course, when Thomson composed his poem, he was hardly describing contemporary reality. In the early 1740s, eclipsed by the Dutch and harried by Spain, the Royal Navy was more a mercantile concern than an imperial force. Eighteenth-century singers-along to “Rule Britannia” might well have sung with their tongues in their cheeks. Or, borne along on the momentum that any refrain inevitably generates, they might, like the last-night crowds at the BBC Proms year after year, have been stirred out of a weary pessimism by the poem’s exhortation to see themselves as great.  

Rule Britannia 
by James Thomson 

When Britain first, at heaven’s command, 
    Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land, 
    And guardian angels sung this strain— 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 
The nations, not so blest as thee, 
    Must in their turns to tyrants fall; 
While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
    The dread and envy of them all. 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 
Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
    More dreadful from each foreign stroke; 
As the loud blast that tears the skies 
    Serves but to root thy native oak. 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 
Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; 
    All their attempts to bend thee down, 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
    But work their woe and thy renown. 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 
To thee belongs the rural reign; 
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 
All thine shall be the subject main, 
    And every shore it circles thine. 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 
The Muses, still with freedom found, 
    Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, 
    And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
       “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
       Britons never will be slaves.” 
 

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.