We’ll meditate, and sing, and shed the tear.
O native song! between the elder day,
Ark of the Covenant, and younger times,
Wherein their heroes’ swords the people lay,
Their flowers of thought and web of native rhymes.
Thou ark! no stroke can break thee or subdue,
While thine own people hold thee not debased.
O native song! thou art as guardian placed,
Defending memories of a nation’s word.
The Archangel’s wings are thine, his voice thine too,