Vii

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, O Albion! O my mother Isle! Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers; Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells Echo to the bleat of flocks; (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells Proudly ramparted with rocks) And Ocean mid his uproar wild Speaks safety to his Island-child! Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore; Nor ever proud Invader's rage Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.