Bengala's plains are richly green,
Her azure skies of dazzling sheen,
Her rivers vast, her forests grand.
Her bowers brilliant,--but the land,
Though dear to countless eyes it be,
And fair to mine, hath not for me
The charm ineffable of _home_;
For still I yearn to see the foam
Of wild waves on thy pebbled shore,
Dear Albion! to ascend once more
Thy snow-white cliffs; to hear again
The murmur of thy circling main--
To stroll down each romantic dale
Beloved in boyhood--to inhale
Fresh life on green and breezy hills--
To trace the coy retreating rills--
To see the clouds at summer-tide
Dappling all the landscape wide--
To mark the varying gloom and glow
As the seasons come and go--
Again the green meads to behold
Thick strewn with silvery gems and gold,
Where kine, bright-spotted, large, and sleek,
Browse silently, with aspect meek,
Or motionless, in shallow stream
Stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem,
Feet linked to feet, forbid to sever,
By some strange magic fixed for ever.
And oh! once more I fain would see
(Here never seen) a poor man _free_,[004]
And valuing more an humble name,
But stainless, than a guilty fame,
How sacred is the simplest cot,
Where Freedom dwells!--where she is not
How mean the palace! Where's the spot
She loveth more than thy small isle,
Queen of the sea? Where hath her smile
So stirred man's inmost nature? Where
Are courage firm, and virtue fair,
And manly pride, so often found
As in rude huts on English ground,
Where e'en the serf who slaves for hire
May kindle with a freeman's fire?
How proud a sight to English eyes
Are England's village families!
The patriarch, with his silver hair,
The matron grave, the maiden fair.
The rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad,
On Sabbath day all neatly clad:--
Methinks I see them wend their way
On some refulgent morn of May,
By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare,
Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!
I can love _all_ lovely lands,
But England _most_; for she commands.
As if she bore a parent's part,
The dearest movements of my heart;
And here I may not breathe her name.
Without a thrill through all my frame.
Never shall this heart be cold
To thee, my country! till the mould
(Or _thine_ or _this_) be o'er it spread.
And form its dark and silent bed.
I never think of bliss below
But thy sweet hills their green heads show,
Of love and beauty never dream.
But English faces round me gleam!