Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/28

O England, Mother-Land! how oft my heart
In its young musings hath gone out to thee
With filial love. For thou didst tell me tales
Of ancient times, and of the steel-clad knights,
Who battled for the truth, and of the lays
Of wandering minstrels, harping in thy halls,
Until I longed to see her face, whose voice
Could charm me so, even as the simple child,
Going to rest, asks for its mother's kiss.

Therefore have I come forth upon the wave,
I, whose most dear and unambitious joy
Was,'neath the low porch of my vine-clad home,
To twine at early morn such tender shoots,
As the cool night put forth, or listening catch
The merry voices of my little ones
Lifting the blossoms from their turfy bed,
I have come strangely forth upon the wave,
To take thee by the hand, before I die.

Show me the birth- place of those bards of old,
Whose music moved me, as a mighty wind
Doth bow the reed. Show me their marble tombs,
Whose varied wisdom taught the awe-struck world,
Those giants of old time. Show me thy domes
And castellated towers, with ivy crowned,
The proud memorials of a buried race,
Pour on my ear thy rich Cathedral strain,
England, our mother, and to my far home