Of England’s march o’er many a noble field—
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land view’d from an Alpine height.
Away, presumptuous thought! Departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun’s reflected rays,
E’en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze