Be this the chosen site--the virgin sod,
Moistened from age to age by dewy eve,
Shall disappear--and grateful earth receive
The corner-stone from hands that build to God.
Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod
Of Winter storms yet budding cheerfully;
Those forest oaks of Druid memory,
Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode
Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band
Of daisies, Shepherds sate of yore and wove
May-garlands, let the holy Altar stand
For kneeling adoration; while above,
Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove,
That shall protect from Blasphemy the Land.
Design, coding, and editing: Copyright © 1997-2004 by James M. Garrett. All rights reserved.