Stars in the bosom of thy triple tide,

June air and ivy on thy gracile stone,

O glory of the West, as thou wert sown,

Be perfect: O miraculous, abide!

And still, for greatness flickering from thy side,

Eternal alchemist, upraise, enthrone

True heirs in true succession, later blown

From that same seed of fire which never died.

Nor love shall lack her solace, to behold

Ranged to the morrow’s melancholy verge,

Thy lights uprisen in Thought’s disclosing spaces;

And round some beacon-spirit, stable, old,

In radiant broad tumultuary surge

For ever, the young voices, the young faces.