Home is where the beagles are

Hunters of winter, fight of fiery hours,

Shielding their ancient capital into the sun,

Leaving a palace of ice within its rich mould,

Every fire of the land with steam, no breath

Unto the sluggish spirit of the give to death,

Time into the whirlwind with neither heart and breath,

Whether the hand of fire that lives a spinning.

Deeply can he draw a spirit in that blossom

Unto the breaking of his tongue as blessedness,

Read by the lesson of the thrilling universe.

Too long the journey to a perpetual peace.

Look on the beautiful order of an hour,

Indulge the guilty life of power and power

Unto thy mighty reign, thy glorious hour,

Before thy victor country was held by a ray.

May rise before the gentle spirit of thy face

Thine for the child of thy own magnificent heart.

Come like a living image of thy native stone,

With thy bright light and thy fair rural worshipper.

None has thy gorgeous orb amid thy gorgeous mind,

On thy bright morning tresses with the mountain air.

Ever at thy door thy visible waters meet

Read thy radiant walls in a perilous home!

Ever at thy door thy visible shrine could save.

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