Now, by the verdure on thy thousand hills,
    Beloved England, doth the earth appear
    Quite good enough for men to overbear
    The will of God in, with rebellious wills!
    We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils
    Ingloriously its course, nor that the clear
    Strong stars without significance insphere
    Our habitation: we, meantime, our ills
    Heap up against this good and lift a cry
    Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast,
    As if ourselves were better certainly
    Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest,
    I ask thee not my joys to multiply, 
    Only to make me worthier of the least.


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