The fields, the streams, the skies are fair,
There 's freshness in the balmy air,
A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods,
And pleasure fills thy solitudes,
And sweets are strewn where'er we rove--
But thou art not the land we love.
How glorious, from the eastern heaven,
The fulness of the dawn is given!
How fair on ocean's glowing breast
Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!
All radiant are thy stars above--
But thou art not the land we love.
Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam,
Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream;
From morn to noon, from noon to even,
Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven,
From field and forest, vale and grove--
But thou art not the land we love.
To high and free imaginings
Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
The brave thy sons to triumph led,
Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
And Liberty thy chaplet wove--
But thou art not the land we love.
From the far bosom of the sea
A flood of brightness rests on thee,
And stately to the bending skies
Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!
But thou art not the land we love.
Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
The mountains of our native land!
Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
The heath below, the blue above,
The altars of the land we love!