XV. The Church in Wales.
Turn thee again, thou Lord of hosts, look down from Heaven, behold, and visit this vine.
For thou didst take me up unto thy breast,
Pitying my lost and helpless infancy,
And didst engraft me in the living tree.
Still breathe fresh thoughts from thy Plinlimmon's crest,
Hedg'd by thy language, (in thy mountain-nest,
Indented oft with blue o'er-arching sea,)
That so the airs of foul disloyalty
Reach thee but faintly from our sad unrest,
Which, like Avernian steams, to Heav'n's deep roof
Daily ascend, and gathering there aloof,
Hang in tempestuous clouds. If thou would'st still
Have thy good Angel guard thee free from blame,
Rend not Christ's robe at thine irreverent will,
But wrap it round thee, lest they see thy shame!
