Yea, yet is she pre-eminent, a nation
Of men heroic—but the time would fail
If I should now essay the consecration
To lyre-strings and to song’s soft-rippling gale
Of all that tale,
Lest men’s ears should be overfilled the while
And envy vex us. Let the task yet lying
Before me speed on wings of poesy flying,
Thy due, boy, youngest glory of thine isle.