Fronting the Forth, those convent piles far-kenned,
The worn-out sailor’s hope.
Fair English shores,
Despite the buffeting storms of north and east,
Despite rough ages blind with stormier strife,
Or froz’n by doubt, or sad with sensual care,
A fragrance as of Carmel haunts you still
Bequeathed by feet of that forgotten saint
Who trod you once, sowing the seed divine!
Fierce tribes that kenned him distant round him flocked;