And merry England’s voice floats up from all her vales.
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven’s immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky[157]
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,
When holy strains, from life’s pure fount which sprung,