To till a rough, ungrateful soil;
Yet kindly spared by Heaven to know
That Faith’s reward is sure, though slow,
And see the prophet’s mantle grace
The rudest scion of her race.
And while around thy seaward shore
The Atlantic doth its surges pour,
(Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems)
May Temples be thy diadems;
Spire after spire in beauty rise,