| Deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn,Red sunset tides against a red seawall, High lonely barrows where the curlews call, Far moors that echo to the ringing horn,—Devon! thou spirit of all these beauties born,All these are thine, but thou art more than all:Speech can but tell thy name, praise can but fallBeneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn. Yet, yet, O noble land, forbid us notEven now to join our faint memorial chimeTo the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hotWho took the tide in thy Imperial prime;Whose glory's thine till Glory sleeps forgotWith her ancestral phantoms, Pride and Time. HENRY NEWBOLT | 
