To England

Now england lessens on my sight; The bastioned front of Wales, Discolored and indefinite, There like a cloud-wreath sails: A league, and all those thronging hills Must sink beneath the sea; But while one touch of Memory thrills, They yet shall stay with me. I claim no birthright in yon sod, Though thence my blood and name; My sires another region trod, Fought for another fame; Yet a son’s tear this moment wrongs My eager watching eyes, Land of the lordliest deeds and songs Since Greece was great and wise! Thou hedgerow thing that queenest the Earth, What magic hast?—what art? A thousand years of work and worth Are clustered at thy heart: The ghosts of those that made thee free To throng thy hearth are wont; And as thy richest reliquary Thou wearest thy Abbey’s front! Aye, ere my distance is complete I see thy heroes come And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat, Still guardians of their home; Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce Glow out o’er dusky tides; The rival Roses blend in truce, And King with Roundhead rides. And with these phantoms born to last, A storm of music breaks; And bards, pavilioned in the past,— Each from his tomb awakes! The ring and glitter of thy swords, Thy lovers’ bloom and breath, By them transmuted into words, Redeem the world from death. My path is West! My heart before Bounds o’er the dancing wave; Yet something ’s left I must deplore— A magic wild and grave: Though Honor live and Romance dwell By mine own streams and woods, Yet not in spire and keep so well Are built such lofty moods. England, perchance our love were more If we were matched and met In battle squadron on the shore, Or here on ocean set: How were all other banners furled If that great duel rose! For we alone in all the world Are worthy to be foes. If we should fail or you should fly, ’T were but a twinned disgrace, For both are bound to bear on high The laurels of one race:— No fear! new blooms shall bud above Upon the ancient wreath, For both can gentle be to Love, And insolent to Death. Land of the lion-hearted brood, I breathe a last adieu; To Her who reigns across the flood My loyalty is true: But with my service to her o’er, Thou, England, ownest the rest, For I must worship and adore Whate’er is brave and best.