Near that brown nook the laborer whistling tills,
Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls
‘Mid dewy brakes the autumnal red-breast thrills;
So long, last poet of the great old race,
Shall thy broad song through England’s bosom roll.
A river singing anthems in its place,
And be to later England as a soul.
Glory to Him who made thee, and increase,
To them that hear thy word, of love and peace!”
II.