I.

“So long as Duddon, ’twixt his cloud-girt walls Thridding the woody chambers of the hills, Warbles from vaulted grot and pebbled halls Welcome or farewell to the meadow rills; So long as linnets pipe glad madrigals Near that brown nook the laborer whistling tills, Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls ‘Mid dewy brakes the autumnal red-breast thrills; So long, last poet of the great old race, Shall thy broad song through England’s bosom roll. A river singing anthems in its place, And be to later England as a soul. Glory to Him who made thee, and increase, To them that hear thy word, of love and peace!”