Be This The Chosen Site; The Virgin Sod, Moistened From Age To Age By Dewy Eve, Shall Disappear, And Grateful Earth Receive The Corner-Stone From Hands That Build To God. Yon Reverend Hawthorns, Hardened To The Rod Of Winter Storms, Yet Budding Cheerfully; Those Forest Oaks Of Druid Memory, Shall Long Survive, To Shelter The Abode Of Genuine Faith. Where, Haply, 'Mid This Band Of Daisies, Shepherds Sate Of Yore And Wove May-Garlands, There Let The Holy Altar Stand For Kneeling Adoration; While Above, Broods, Visibly Portrayed, The Mystic Dove, That Shall Protect From Blasphemy The Land.