Shine on, majestic soul, abide
Like David's tree planted beside
The Flemish rivers. In the end,
Thy fruit shall with their drops contend.
Our God will surely dry those tears
Which now that moist land to thee bears.
Then shall thy glory, fresh as flowers
In water kept, maugre the powers
Of Devil, Jesuit, and Spain,
From Holland sail into the main.
Thence, wheeling on, it compass shall
This, our great sublunary ball;
And with that ring, thy fame shall wed
Eternity into one bed.