His spirit and his dust—the altar and the tomb.
But ages roll’d away: and England stood
With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood;
And with a lofty calmness in her eye,
And regal in collected majesty,
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze
Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas;
And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank
On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave