Classic Poem

I THOUGHT upon the noble souls,
That have from age to age,
O England! shone upon the rolls
Of thy historic page:

I thought upon the nobleness
That yet in thee appears,
After the wasting heresies
Of thrice a hundred years:

And musing on thine earlier day,
" Dear native land, " I said,
" It cannot be, for all they say,
That thou art wholly dead. "

Ah no! I feel, and here declare
With presage half divine,
That in the days which dawn afar,
If not at least in mine,

Thy desecrated shrines once more
Shall their true God receive;
And kneeling Englishmen adore,
Where now they disbelieve.

O joyous thought! how from these eyes
The tears ecstatic start,
Whene'er, as now, I feel thee rise
Unbidden in my heart!

O Day of days, so oft foretold!
So surely drawing nigh!
Which Saints have thirsted to behold,
For which the Angels sigh!

Methinks, although in Paradise
My spirit then should be,
'Twould feel an increase of its joys
In looking down on thee!

Methinks these very bones of mine
Will thrill beneath the grave,
When thou shalt come, O Day divine!
My native land to save!