Hail thee their mother—worship thee in dust!
The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb
To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom;
From every turf the peasant’s plough divides,
Some glorious shade the rude invasion chides;
In thy vast temple, where the God of love
Reigns o’er the fallen shrines of pagan Jove,
Each mortal, while he breathes its sacred air,
Feels it belongs to all who worship there!
Each tree that withers on thy mountains stern,