University of Virginia Library

Farewell, my Land! on thy blest shores I leave
Many Beloved Ones!—shall I seek to weave
A Song of warbled lamentations soft,
For sighing breezes, towards those shores to waft
A melancholy, plaintive, swan-like strain,
Murmuring that like Death's pang is Parting's pain—
Or leave it to these voiceless tears to shew
All that can be revealed of jealous woe
(Which still loves best in hidden streams to flow)—
Or pour the fervent sorrows of my soul
On one wild, sudden, full Farewell!—while roll
Bravely beneath our bark, loud, fast, and free,
Those waves that soon must sever us from thee,
Beloved Country!—Yet roll on, roll on,
Ye blue, rejoicing waves!—'tis past, 'tis done!
When my last footstep printed that loved shore,
Was not the bitterness of parting o'er?
Roll—roll—impetuous waves! that onwards bear
Life's care-stained Wanderers!—ye that know not care,
Ye that in freedom of disdainful play
Reflect, redouble all the pomps of day,
And evermore become in joy and might
The mirror of ten thousand worlds by night—
Ah! only on your pure, transparent face,
Of Heaven and Heavenly things ye keep the trace!
No Earthly stain your glorious surface mars—
Clouds, sunbeams, meteors, lightnings, rainbows, stars—
The many-coloured mists that float and spread
Around Light's throne and Sovereign Fountain-head—
The crimson, and the purple, and the gold,
The Tempest's kingly banners, broad unrolled,
With lurid blazonries on every fold;
The Morning and the Evening's proud display
Of dazzling wealth and prodigal array—
The glories and the terrors of the skies,
Their varying lights, and ever-changing dyes,
Their royal pomps and gorgeous mysteries,
The endless wonders of the Firmament—
These are the pageants that ye still present,
These are the matchless spectacles and shows
That ye display in turmoil and repose.
On! bear us on! now let now hopes arise,
To greet new shores and gild ev'n alien skies:
No spot of Earth is there that may not bless
The admonished Soul with chastened happiness;
The Soul that, calmly free and humbly meek,
Improvement, Knowledge, Wisdom, Truth would seek,
Where'er its destined path may chance to lie,
Beneath the all-o'ershadowing dome of sky:
Not hither—thither—like a thing astray,
Wandering, unmapped, unbeaconed on its way;
But with a rational aim—a governed will,
A studied end—and settled purpose still.
And with a calm and an established trust,
A clear-couched view, unprejudiced and just,
And with a solemn and a steadfast hope
(Embracing more than Earth in its vast scope),
And with the excitement of a blameless quest,
A search for all that's noblest—fairest—best,
Bent to pursue its journeyings, far or near,
Though not its own free course ordained to steer,
Haply—yet strengthened by such inborn cheer.

So may it be with me!—yet let me prove,
Where'er, 'midst Earth's all-various scenes I move,
Still true to Memory, Gratitude, and Love.
And therefore, true to thee, Oh! Island-home,
Dear Country of the Cradle and the Tomb—
Land of the inviolate shrine, the unshaken tower,
The honoured hearth—the sacred, social bower.

England! sweet England! Fare thee well! Farewell!
Thy cliffs in Heaven now lose themselves—dispel
Those clouds, dear Memory—gathering dense and dim
Round that loved shore. Now doth my fond eye swim,
My fond heart swell—while looking thus my last
On thee, my Country! where my chequered Past,
With its ten thousand changes, flowed—how fast!
Where first were opened to mine eager view,
Great Nature's pages, ever fresh and new;
Where first my mind for Truth's pure fountains yearned,
Where first my soul with deep emotions burned;
Where, first and last, my heart was touched and moved,
Where first and last it hoped, dreamed, trusted, loved!
Where now I have left, as hostage for that heart,
Its own best, dearest, and most intimate part!

Yes! Land of Love—of Childhood, and of Home!
Thy cliffs do lose themselves in Heaven!—a gloom,
A gorgeous gloom, seems gathering round thee now,
And scarce to Love will Grief's last gaze allow.
Pavilioned round by many clouds art thou,
(That dim and gloomy to mine eyes appear,
Because they bar those eyes from sight so dear!)
Yet richly do those vapoury curtains wear
A purple radiance—pure, and bright, and fair.
Thy cliffs do lose themselves in Heaven—in Heaven—
For of their clear, sharp outlines, all bereaven,
And of their proud proportions shorn and clipped,
And of their bold, projecting features stripped,
And of their massive semblance dispossessed,
And robed in shadowy palliament—thin vest—
And stained with faint, soft colourings, not their own,
Pale hues, by widening distance o'er them thrown,
And girdled round by many a vapoury belt,
And many a cloud-wreath, do they seem to melt
Into the smiling Firmaments above,
And the soft atmosphere spread round in love.
Ay! to my strained, tear-troubled eye, they seem,
Ere yet they vanish like a beauteous dream,
To mix and mingle with the crystal sky,
(Until they form one aëry pageantry,
One dreamy splendour—thus together blent,
While so to each a lovelier charm is lent!)
To grow ethereal, and to cast aside
Their rugged massiveness and stubborn pride—
To fade and fleet from the desiring sight,
But fading—fleeting—softly to unite
With yon serene, celestial Realms of Light.
And thus, my heart-dear Country! thus, e'en thus,
Within my thoughts, grown half-idolatrous,
Thy loved and lofty memory doth outshine;
By envious Distance made but more divine,
By dark divorce made but more sacred there,
By mournful Exile yet more blest and fair.
Yes!—so thou seem'st, beloved and matchless Land!
Mingling with all of glorious and of grand,
Of bright—of beautiful—that may be scanned
By mortal eye, or mortal fancy even—
Yes! England! thou becom'st thus one with Heaven.
Almost I deem, within thy hallowed bound
Nor care, nor pain, nor sorrow might be found;
One mighty, magic circle, brightly free
From earthly wrong and earthly misery.
Is there one blessing that doth not abound
In the free precincts of that thrice-bless'd ground?—
Is there one virtue that doth not adorn
That sacred soil (as there 'twas bred and born,
Native to thee, as light and dew to morn?)—
Is there one proud distinction that doth not
Exalt and glorify that chosen spot—
One generous feeling that doth not expand
In the pure bosom of that favoured Land?
Oh! ever-free and happy England! prove
The mighty magnet of my duteous love!
Oh! ever prove, though seas and mountains part,
The Land of Promise to my longing heart:
For ever prove the haven and the goal,
The centre round which all my thoughts may roll,
The ever-beauteous Dream-land of my soul!
And still new glories ceaselessly display,
And o'er that soul exert increasing sway;
And still new claims perpetually unfold
To new devotion—deeper than the old,
Though that was all unmeasured and untold!
So Love exalts the object he adores,
So Love enriches with his priceless stores
Whate'er he worships—with true faith and zeal
So doth he still bestow—and still reveal
New charms, attractions, and enchantments there,
That still surpass each other—still more fair—
More perfect—more prevailing—and more rare—
(Until the soul, engrossed by that bless'd theme,
Becomes one passionate, one adoring Dream.)
So Love embalms the object he reveres,
And Absence gilds—Estrangement but endears—
Distance, delay, and difficulties make
That object yet more cherished for their sake.
'Twas dear before—but consecrated then;
Fair always—then e'en dazzling to the ken;
For ever precious—but then prized sevenfold,
An hundredfold more dearly than of old!
So Love adorns with his deep-working spells,
That shrine where all his sumless treasure dwells—
But Oh! sweet Land! of every charm possessed
To arouse and animate the coldest breast,
Doth Love require Imagination's aid
To view thee in Perfection's guise arrayed?
To dwell with zeal of homage, ever new—
With ardour of delight—warm, quick, and true—
On such a theme of Sovereign Excellence—
No! No!—his inspiration springs from thence,
And Truth becomes the liveliest Eloquence.
(Yet all the truth to express, would surely ask
Gigantic powers—'t were a gigantic task!)
Why Eloquence—why Fancy seem but tame,
When they would lend new lustre to thy name,
And magnify thy Glory—sound thy Fame;
Enthusiasm itself—dull, slack, inert,
When 't would do homage to thy vast desert;
All Love, all Admiration, and all Praise
To thee belong, nor can adorn nor raise;—
Palladium of the rights of all mankind!—
What sacred treasures are in thee enshrined.
Surely while thou dost flourish and endure,
Humanity's best interests rest secure—
Peace, Justice, Honour, Temperance, Liberty,
Fair Charity, and Independence high,
Reverence and Virtue, Wisdom, Valour, Worth,
Make thee the very Eden of the Earth.
Doth not fair Plenty's cornucopia pour
O'er thy glad fields the abundance of its store—
Doth not sweet Quiet make her hallowed nest
In thy calm bosom, where no storms molest—
Doth not bright Concord smilingly abide
Where thy free towns and towers display their pride—
Doth not supreme Security remain
Where thy proud oak trees lord it o'er the plain,
And to triumphal arches shape and bend
Their mighty boughs, that far and wide extend,
And give fair promise—which they yet shall keep—
That they shall lord it o'er the thundering deep?
Yes! yes! Security for ever smiles,
Where Heaven and Nature guard the Imperial Isles;
Where thy dread Seas the' ambitious foe control,
And round thy shores of smiling beauty roll;
Where thy white cliffs in venerable pride
Confirm the sentence of the briny tide—
That no Intruder on that sacred strand
Shall dare, with rash, unlicensed foot, to stand.
Lo! Earth and Heaven, and the confederate Sea,
In concert cry—“Be peaceful, and be free!”
And free and peaceful may'st thou still remain,
And prouder heights of palmy state attain.
Oh! Ark and Temple—Citadel and Shrine,
What marvel—torn from Sanctuary like thine,
That Love's full heart should deem it all divine—
What marvel, while we stretch the parting sail,
That fond Devotion's tongue should trembling hail
Thy fading shores, embracing with yon skies,
As the' outskirts of an earthly Paradise!
Well may the Wanderers, severed from thy breast,
Proclaim thee, weeping—Fairest, First—and Best!
And still thy name exalt—thy worth attest.
Well may it be, to them in their distress
Pardoned, though they should worship to excess;
Well may it be to them, indeed, forgiven,
To deem their England almost one with Heaven!