“It is the will of God!”--yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought--“It is the will of God!” Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee? Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E’en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height,[144] And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood, When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God--and shall she now Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow? From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers! Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant’s records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days, When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, And fondly say--“My child, for thee He died!”