Jewels so rare, as those ye thickly scatter
Upon the wind for your posterity.
To me your voices,
In the still midnight, in the garish day,
Have ever gently come: I trust in you—
And ye are faithful: Rest forever with me.
The prophet lore of Israel—the sound
Of swelling harps by Grecian wizards strung—
Promethean echoes!—the ever-burning page
Of England’s brighter days—the undying song