Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,
Hallow'd by freedom and enshrined in song!
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell,
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well,
E'en as an angel, with presiding care,
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.
For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies
Call on the watchers of the land to rise,
To set the sign of fire on every height,6[1]
And o'er the mountains rear with patriot might,
Prepared, if summon'd, in its cause to die,
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory!
By this hath England conquer'd—field and flood
Have own'd her sov'reignty—alone she stood,
When chains o'er all the scepter'd earth were thrown,
In high and holy singleness, alone,
But mighty in her God—and shall she now
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow?
From the bright fountain of her glory turn,
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn?
No! sever'd land, 'midst rocks and billows rude,
Throned in thy majesty of solitude,
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest,
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers,
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!
Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle!
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,
