Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.
IX.
In England's name, in Shakespeare's,—and in ours,
Who bear these trusted flowers,—
There shall be heard a cheer from many throats,
A rush and roar of notes,
As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds;
And they who till the ground and tend the herds
Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.
X.