Henry Newbolt

Deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn,
  Red sunset tides against a red sea-wall,
  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 fall
Beneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn.

Yet, yet, O noble land, forbid us not
  Even now to join our faint memorial chime
To the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hot
  Who took the tide in thy Imperial prime;
Whose glory's thine till Glory sleeps forgot
  With her ancestral phantoms, Pride and Time.