Yes, all are glorious,—yet again
I bless thee, land of home!
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead—the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper’d round thy fanes.