But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.

Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!

Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel.

The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.

What millions died that Caesar might be great!