Turn unsubdued, with thunder in their breast—
Fair Isle! where beauty lingereth as a dower
O’er rock and roof, and densely-wooded dell,
And in the bosom of the autumnal flower
Foiling the frost-king in its quiet cell,
The Indian hunter of the olden time
Saw thee with love, and on his wandering way
Staid the keen bow, at morning’s earliest prime,
A name of blessing on thy head to lay—
Baptism of tears! it liveth on thy shore,