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The shrine where art and genius high Have laboured for eternity; The stranger comes—his eye explores The wilds of thy majestic shores, Yet vainly seeks one votive stone, Raised to the hero all thine own. Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height, of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise! Not to record the name that thrills Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright for ever of its fame;