And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.