 | The Dawn in Britain |  |
But what seest thou, these days, O foster Muse,
Which all this land surview'st, in sacred Alban?
Which all this land surview'st, in sacred Alban?
In Avalon, Joseph and the brethren saints,
Are fathers to all orphans of the war;
And make resort to them, poor heathen souls,
As bees, to honey sweetness of Spring flowers.
Hath this year's harvest yielded, in the holms,
An hundred-fold. Such is God's blessing there,
On Shalum, Christ's disciple's hands; who hath
Enough, to nourish all who needy; nor
The bitter cry is heard there, any more,
Of outlaws, who, for misery, ready were
To perish. Joseph, Father-of-the-poor,
The Stranger, daily also, on the sick,
Lays healing hands; and they recover health.
Are fathers to all orphans of the war;
And make resort to them, poor heathen souls,
As bees, to honey sweetness of Spring flowers.
Hath this year's harvest yielded, in the holms,
An hundred-fold. Such is God's blessing there,
On Shalum, Christ's disciple's hands; who hath
Enough, to nourish all who needy; nor
The bitter cry is heard there, any more,
Of outlaws, who, for misery, ready were
To perish. Joseph, Father-of-the-poor,
The Stranger, daily also, on the sick,
Lays healing hands; and they recover health.
| The Dawn in Britain | |