Luxuriant thence, to Glory’s ruin true;

While England hung her trophies on the stem,

That desolately stood, unconscious e’en of them.

Of them unconscious! Oh, mysterious doom!

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?

His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,

The realm’s high soul to loftiest energies!

His was the spirit o’er the isles which threw

The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought

In every bosom, powerful to renew