He Scorn'd His Own, Who Felt Another's

The Meteor Flag Of England Shall Yet Terrific Burn, Till Danger's Troubled Night Depart, And The Star Of Peace Return.

Who Hath Not Own'd, With Rapture-smitten Frame, The Power Of Grace, The Magic Of A Name.

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

Britannia Needs No Bulwarks, No Towers Along The Steep; Her March Is O'er The Mountain Waves, Her Home Is On The Deep.

A Stoic Of The Woods,--a Man Without A Tear.