Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,
Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;
Where truth is not too beautiful to see,
Action is music, life a harmony.
There dwells the poet, till some luckless day
Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay,
And in our dull and dusty commonplace
He loses memory of his name and race,—
Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,
The language of the land where he was born;