Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

[“He was born in London, but came when a child to Ohio, where he was educated. He at first said that he remembered nothing at all of England, but afterwards asked, ‘Aren't there little flowers that grow along by the fences in England that they call cups?’ ‘Butter-cups—yes.’ ‘And another little flower in the fences that smells very nice—haws; is it?—and another in the grass.’ ‘Primroses,’ I suggested. ‘Ah, yes, that's it—cups and primroses. I thought I was in England; there wan't no such in Ohio. I can

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remember going out with my mother into the country and picking them. That's the only thing I can remember in England.’”]

O land beyond the sounding sea,
O Queen enthroned in glory,
O Mother of a mighty race,
Renowned in song and story—
Rich in memorials of the past,
In promise of the future,
Linked by the great acts of to-day,
In not unworthy suture—
Rich in all deeds of deathless fame
That show divine in human,
Rich in the life of noble man,
And of heroic woman.
Rich in that love by Jesus taught,
Which maketh all men brothers,
Rich in each gift that God bestows,
But passing rich in mothers.

From Canterbury's old renown,
From Windsor's quiet meadows,
From “Silver Avon's” holy ground,
From Cheviot's purple shadows,
Thy children pass to every land
On which the sun is shining,
The sturdy zeal of Saxon nerve,
With tropic fire combining;

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But still wherever English hand,
To English hand gives greeting,
Wherever in the English breast
An English heart is beating,
Sweet memories of the mother land
Will come like guests unbidden,
Beneath the gathering moss of time,
Revealing fountains hidden.
Sweet memories—not of moated tower,
Or wild castle hoary,
Of princely Hampton's pictured halls,
Or Hastings' doubtful glory,
But of the primrose by the brook,
The daisy in the meadow,
The buttercups on dimpled chins,
Which cast a golden ghadow,
Of emerald turf with violets flecked,
His young feet crushed unheeding,
As pattered they along the way,
A mother's hand was leading.

Brown locks may whiten on the brow,
Bright eyes be dim with weeping,
The child grown old, the mother cold,
Beneath the daisy sleeping;
But still when he who holds the key
Of memory's mystic portal,
Shall for a space unbar the gates
To show the soul immortal,

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Though Arctic snows or Afric sands
Stretch drearily before him,
The fragrant gales of English vales
Will breathe their sweetness o'er him.

O Mother's hand, O mother's heart,
Ye work a wondrous mission,
Ye smite a harp whose thrill perchance
Is hidden from your vision;
Yet touch it lightly, for the chords
Will cease their trembling never,
But stretching through the mists of time
Go quivering on forever.

Feb. 8, 1857.