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With the golden sunbeam shining
Round the Abbey's towers,
Stands that stately pile enshrining
England's noblest hours,
There they rest its honour'd dead.
There the trophies of our annals
Fling their shade below,
Flags that in our English channels
Once announced a foe,
Now in triumph are they spread.
‘Tis no lesson taught in vain,
So would millions die again.
In those ancient chancels slumber
As within a shrine,
Men whom history loves to number
On her sacred line,
Men who leave themselves behind;
Statesmen holding yet dominion
With their fellow-men;
By the empire of opinion,
Ruling them again:
For immortal is the mind,
And a thoughtful truth maintains
Whatsoever ground it gains.
