 | English Roses |  |
381
HOMESPUN.
I will not cull from any neighbour's
Garden bright and green,
The tiniest bud that by his labours
Laughs in goodly sheen;
I will not gather one least blade
That breathes in sunshine or in shade,
And sweetly throws
The perfume which it never misses
Around us like impassioned kisses,
As it glows;
I love the harvest of my toil,
If grown on surly English soil.
Garden bright and green,
The tiniest bud that by his labours
Laughs in goodly sheen;
I will not gather one least blade
That breathes in sunshine or in shade,
And sweetly throws
The perfume which it never misses
Around us like impassioned kisses,
As it glows;
I love the harvest of my toil,
If grown on surly English soil.
It may be meaner crops and humble
Flowers from simple seed,
Or stones where careless footsteps stumble
In the wilding weed;
But howsoe'er the borders look
In many a pale and pensive nook
Or homely line,
Though rough the ground and rank with thistles
And horrid thorn that ramps and bristles,
They are mine;
And if it be but little known
Or honoured, it is all my own.
Flowers from simple seed,
Or stones where careless footsteps stumble
In the wilding weed;
But howsoe'er the borders look
In many a pale and pensive nook
Or homely line,
Though rough the ground and rank with thistles
And horrid thorn that ramps and bristles,
They are mine;
And if it be but little known
Or honoured, it is all my own.
I will not steal the mincing measures
And the tinkling tones
By others framed, for the true treasures
Which my breast enthrones;
My numbers may wear lowly 'tire,
But yet they have the English fire
And sturdy form;
If rude and crude they throb with motion,
They leap with liberty of ocean
And the storm;
For worlds of fair and foreign art,
Give me instead one island heart.
And the tinkling tones
By others framed, for the true treasures
Which my breast enthrones;
My numbers may wear lowly 'tire,
But yet they have the English fire
And sturdy form;
If rude and crude they throb with motion,
They leap with liberty of ocean
And the storm;
For worlds of fair and foreign art,
Give me instead one island heart.
382
I sing the gallant faith that higher
Raises us than arms,
And brings Eternity yet nigher
Mid a thousand harms;
That wrought this iron bone and grit
By salt of seas and tempest knit
And dreadful odds,
By clash of constant war with Nature
Which lifts the feeblest to the stature
Of the gods;
I ask no better help in need,
Than in our grand old columned creed.
Raises us than arms,
And brings Eternity yet nigher
Mid a thousand harms;
That wrought this iron bone and grit
By salt of seas and tempest knit
And dreadful odds,
By clash of constant war with Nature
Which lifts the feeblest to the stature
Of the gods;
I ask no better help in need,
Than in our grand old columned creed.
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