Classic Poem

We love our Cornish land —
For aught its hills of sand,
Mines unromantic, and its stormy coasts —
For in the barren mound
Are richer memories found,
Than many a ruin of famed castle boasts.

No gilded mausoleum,
Or strains of rich Te Deum,
Allure the traveller where these heroes lie;
In life, by precept holy,
They sought the poor and lowly,
And hoped in death no tribute 'neath the sky.

Honour those men of old,
Whose faith and courage bold,
In the first ardour of the church's youth,
Transplanted to our shores,
Far richer than its ores,
The quenchless fibres of a heaven-born Truth!

'Tis said from Erin's Isle —
Ere war, and priestly guile,
Had dulled the brightness of its emerald green —
They crossed in open boat,
And made the cheery note
Lighten the horrors of the voyage between.

They found our altars red
With blood of human dead,
From the crushed victims of an iron spell;
They told of Him who died —
And soon at eventide
Was heard the music of the church-going bell.

And still these churches stand,
Part hidden in the sand
Raised by the fury of Atlanta's wave;
And there these heroes sleep —
Come, let us reverent seek,
Nor heedless trample on, their honoured graves.