Shall the grey tower in ruin bow?
Must the babe die with nameless brow?
Or common hands in mockery fling
The unblessed waters of the spring?
No! while the Cornish voice can ring
The Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”
Shall the grey tower in ruin stand
When the heart thrills within the hand,
And beauty’s lip to youth hath given
The vow on earth that links for heaven?