Within the precincts of which holy spots,

With awful ordinances fencèd round,

They might grow up in beauty and in peace,

In season due to be transplanted thence

Into the garden of God,—what though all these{5}

{5}

May perish, there will yet remain to us

One citadel, one ark, which hands profane

Will scarce invade, or lay unholy touch

Upon the sanctities inviolate,

And pure religion of our sacred homes.

And here the culture may proceed, and here

Heaven may distil its rich and silent dews,

When all around is parched as desert heath.

For this may come, the withering and the drought,

The laying waste of every holy hedge

May come, how soon we know not, but may fear;

Since nations walk, no less than men, by faith,

As seeing that which is invisible

Unto the sealèd eye of sensual men:

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