The Conversion of Winckelmann and Other Poems | ||
129
IN PRAISE OF ENGLAND
I
From tangled brake and trellised bowerBring every bud that blows,
But never will you find the flower
To match an English rose.
It blooms with more than city grace,
Though rustic and apart;
It has a smile upon its face,
And a dewdrop in its heart.
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II
Though wide the goodly world aroundYour fancy may have strayed,
Where was the woman ever found
To match an English maid?
At work she smiles, through play she sings,
She doubts not nor denies;
She'll cling to you as woodbine clings,
And love you till she dies.
III
If you would put it to the proof,Then round the zodiac roam;
But never will you find the roof
To match an English home.
You hear the sound of children's feet
Still pattering on the stair:
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And sanctified by prayer.
IV
Go traverse tracts sublime or sweet,Snow-peak or scorched ravine,
But where will you the landscape meet
To match an English scene?
The hamlet hallowed by its spire,
The wildwood fresh with flowers,
Garden and croft and thorp and byre
Gleaming through silvery showers.
V
Across the wave, along the wind,Flutter and plough your way,
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To match the English Sway?
Its conscience holds the world in awe
With blessing or with ban;
Its Freedom guards the Reign of Law,
And majesty of Man!
The Conversion of Winckelmann and Other Poems | ||