Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/51

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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 birthplace 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 hymn,

England, our mother, and to my far home

In the green West I will rejoicing turn,

Wearing thine image on my grateful heart.

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