From mingling on its old heroic shore,
Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age
Have made the poet’s own free heritage!
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used on march and heath
To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,