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 Fond memory lingers on those dim old hallways— Lingers and drops a tear, And kind affection drapes the picture always Through each succeeding year.

ENGLAND

Tyre of the West, and glorying in the name More than in Faith's pure fame! O trust not crafty fort nor rock renown'd Earn'd upon hostile ground; Wielding Trade's master-keys, at thy proud will To lock or loose its waters, England! trust not still.

Dread thine own power! Since haughty Babel's prime, High towers have been man's crime. Since her hoar age, when the huge moat lay bare, Strongholds have been man's snare. Thy nest is in the crags; ah, refuge frail! Mad counsels in its hour, or traitors, will prevail.

He who scann'd Sodom for His righteous men Still spares thee for thy ten; But, should vain tongues the Bride of Heaven defy, He will not pass thee by; For, as earth's kings welcome their spotless guests, So gives He them by turn, to suffer or be blest.