Classic Poem

From hundreds of vanished years,
From thousands of miles away,
At the call of a magic voice,
We come, and we fain would stay.

From Scotia's heathery slopes,
From England's fields a-bloom,
From Erin's pastures green,
From the New World's boundless room;

Children of times forgot,
Straying on scenes unknown,
Of all who breathed our air,
Survive but we alone.

Kings and their memory pass,
The conqueror's glories fade,
But we live on in the hearts
That thrill to the songs we made.

Our fame's true guardian, thou,
Sweet singer of our lays —
After the world's applause,
Accept our thanks and praise!