NOW by the verdure on thy thousand hills,
Beloved England,--doth the earth appear
Quite noble enough for men to overbear
The will of God in, with rebellious wills!
We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils
Ingloriously its course; nor that the clear
Strong stars, without significance, insphere
Our habitation. We, meantime, our ills,
Heap up against this good; and lift a cry
Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast,
As if ourselves were better certainly
Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest,
I ask thee not my joys to multiply,--
Only to make me worthier of the least.
