Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills
Touch the last cloud upon the level sky:
No; better men still better love their country.
’Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends,
The chapel of their first and best devotions;
When violence, or perfidy, invades,
Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there,
And wiser heads are drooping round its moats,
At last they fix their steady and stiff eye
There, there alone—stand while the trumpet blows,