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There is no single foot of English soil, Howe’er defaced, that is not holy ground. There is no spot where great souls more abound, Or where man’s greatness is more truly royal. Who hath o’ertopped our Shakespeare? Who by toil Of kingly thought more lofty, more profound, Than Newton e’er from heaven’s majestic round Brought home at night a more stupendous spoil? One thing I find not well. In our reserve We oft-times cloak our excellence, ashamed Not of our imperfections, but our Best; And what is finest, most our own, we serve In some mean dish, or pass it by unclaimed, Leaving the noble in us unexpressed.

RASTATT, 9th May