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The cottage homes of England!


WHY do I weep?-to leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend,-
The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mine!-
The flowers I loved to tend.

A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o'er me sweep,
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh, therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! we have play'd

Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower.
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,

Have been as we may be no more—
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon

Must now light other feet,

With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune,

Thy homeward step to greet.

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled-
I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! on thy breas
Pouring out joy and wo,

I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless,-yet I go!

Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain,
Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep:
Will earth give love like yours again?
Sweet mother! let me weep!


THE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!


LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer: But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thec-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain:
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest,

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beats down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

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"And none did love him,-not his lemans dear,But pomp and power alone are woman's care; And where these are, light Eros finds a frere."

No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
Went up by night to heath or hill,
To read the stars for him;
The merriest girl in all the land

Of vine-encircled France Bestow'd upon his brow and hand

Her philosophic glance:

"I bind thee with a spell," said she,


"I sign thee with a sign;

No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine!

"And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek Is colourless and cold,

Nor that thine eye is slow to speak
What only eyes have told;
For many a cheek of paler white
Hath blush'd with passion's kiss;
And many an eye of lesser light

Hath caught its fire from bliss;
Yet while the rivers seek the sea,

And while the young stars shine, No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine!

"And 't is not that thy spirit, awed By beauty's numbing spell,


Shrinks from the force or from the fraud Which beauty loves so well;

For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake, And swear by earth and sky;

And thou art very bold to take

What we must still deny;


I cannot tell the charm was wrought
By other threads than mine,
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought,
The heart may not be thine!

"Yet thine the brightest smile shall be

That ever beauty wore,
And confidence from two or three,

And compliments from more ;
And one shall give, perchance hath given,
What only is not love,—

Friendship, oh! such as saints in heaven
Rain on us from above.

If she shall meet thee in the bower,
Or name thee in the shrine,

Oh! wear the ring, and guard the flower,-
Her heart may not be thine!

"Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun,-

The haven shall be reach'd at last,
The battle shall be won;
Or muse upon thy country's laws,
Or strike thy country's lute,

And patriot hands shall sound applause,
And lovely lips be mute:

Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine,
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,-
No woman's heart is thine!

"I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,

From doubt, and from disdain;
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth,
And carl the lip at passion's tears,
And shake the head at truth:
While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,

Be thou from woman's love as free
As woman is from thine!"


THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came,
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear,

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'dThis was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim-band-
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God!


THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire;

"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my

captive train,

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!-oh, break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day;

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band,

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,

The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see."

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went;

He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

My king is false, my hope betray'd, my fatheroh! the worth,

The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet,

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met,

Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my fields were won,

And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train;

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this!

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-gave answer, where are they?—

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,

Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire!

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropp'd Thou canst not-and a king?-His dust be moun

"from his like lead,

He look'd up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow was fix'd and white;

He met at last his father's eyes-but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?

They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze;

They might have chain'd him, as before that stony

form he stood,

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmur'd low, and wept like childhood then,

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!

He thought of all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,

He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

tains on thy head!”

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell,-upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look-then turn'd from that sad place:

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain,—

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.


WHAT secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow;
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow,
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind,
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star,

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Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain.


OH! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet-

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bringA dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times,—
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,-
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,-
Oh lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.



For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty
By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon Whose lights must never die; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky;

The rocks yield founts of courage,

Struck forth as by thy rod,

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
O God, our fathers' God!

For the dark, resounding heavens,
Where thy still small voice is heard,
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;

For the storms on whose free pinions

Thy spirit walks abroad,—

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights;

But we for thy communion

Have sought the mountain sod,-
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman

Can not reach our lofty caves;
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold

Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence

Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows, and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial sod,
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!


YES! rear thy guardian hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western World!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er freedom's flag unfurl'd.
There, as before a shrine to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead
The language of that noble brow

For all things good shall plead.
The spirit rear'd in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light

Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let that work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surge's roar,
So girt with tranquil glory, stand
For ages on thy shore!

Such through all time the greetings be, That with the Atlantic billow sweeps! Telling the mighty and the free

Of brothers o'er the deep!

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