And wielded speech that like a flail
Threshed out the golden truth. All hail,
Great Souls! that met on nights like these
Till morning made the candles pale,
And revellers left the “Cheshire Cheese.”
By kindly sense and old decrees
Of England’s use they set their sail;
We press to never-furrowed seas,
For vision-worlds we breast the gale,
And still we seek and still we fail,