Of woe for what might be, or is, or was;
Thou hadst no memory of the glorious hour
When Britain rested on thy giant power;
Thou hadst no feeling for the verdant slope
That leant on thee as man's heart leads on hope;
The pastures, chequered o'er with cot and tree,
Though thou wert guardian, got no smile from thee;
Old ocean's wrath their charms might overwhelm,
But thou could'st still keep thy unshaken realm—
While I felt flashes of an inward feeling