Above the storm-swept frontier that you tread?
Her vanished children throng the glorious way:
A myriad legions of her living dead—
Those starry trains
That shared your pains—
Shall set their crown of light upon your head.
England’s your Mother! When the race is run
And you are called to leave your life and die,
Small matter what is lost, so this be won:
An after-glow of blessed memory,