Xii

’Tis not these Islands sundered from the Deep By many a winding and melodious strand, Lovely as when they issued from the Hand That bade the Shannon from his cradle leap; That smoothed the Cotswolds to the wandering sheep, And spread the waters o’er the Solway sand, And motioned where Ben Cruachan should stand, And in his shadow laid Loch Awe to sleep; ’Tis not these shimmering woods of oak and beech, Nor these green shires, each in its golden frame, Like pictures hanging side by side, and each Entangled with the music of its name-- Not all this weight of glory passing speech Full measure of the English soul can claim.

HESEPE, 11th July