The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.
“The inviolate Island of the sage and free.”
—Byron.
—Byron.
Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud,
Above the surge and spray!
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud,
Above the surge and spray!
My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam:
O! thus forever guard the land,
The sever'd land of home!
Breasting the billow's foam:
O! thus forever guard the land,
The sever'd land of home!
I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines;
And music in the southern wind;
And sunshine on the vines.
Lighting up classic shrines;
And music in the southern wind;
And sunshine on the vines.
The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.
The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome,—
Yes, all are glorious;—yet again
I bless thee, land of home!
The purple heavens of Rome,—
Yes, all are glorious;—yet again
I bless thee, land of home!
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For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze;
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes.
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes.
Their blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea:
O be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!
Of thine exulting sea:
O be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |