A ruin’s all that’s left, Britannia,
– my stay, my jeweled Palace! – once so nigh
to Albion, and for Hibernia.
You lack the will to build Her, once more, high.
But don’t forget: your cornerstone’s still laid;
the hallowed roads ’round Inner Temple’s courts;
St. Paul’s great domination; docks of trade,
those well-worn paths to timeless New World ports.
Up, Greenwich, tow’r and strength of Empire’s base!
Today we slouch and lightly sigh for it;
but, “groundwork gone, it’s yours to forge a brace”,
the gables do – so quietly – admit.
Old age has not been friendly, here, to us;
but royal pasts are near. Now, raise the truss!


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