Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!
Withhold that guerdon now no more.
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise:
Not to record the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills;
Not to assert, with needless claim,
The bright for ever of its fame;