Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.