England! My England! can the surging sea
That lies between us tear
my heart from thee?
Can distant birth and distant dwelling drain
Th’ ancestral blood that warms the loyal vein?
Isle of my Fathers!
hear the filial song
Of him whose sources but to thee belong!
World-Conquering Mother! by thy mighty hand
Was carv’d from savage
wilds my native land:
Thy matchless sons the firm foundation laid;
Thy matchless arts the nascent nation made:
By thy just laws the
young republic grew,
And through thy greatness, kindred greatness
What man that springs from thy untainted line
Columbia’s virtues all as thine?
Whilst nameless multitudes upon our
From the dim corners of creation pour,
Whilst mongrel slaves
crawl hither to partake
Of Saxon liberty they could not make,
such an alien crew in grief I turn,
And for the mother’s voice of
England! can aught remove the cherish’d chain
binds my spirit to thy blest domain?
Can Revolution’s bitter precepts
The soul that must the ties of race obey?
Create a new
Columbia if ye will,
The flesh that forms me is Britannic still!
Hail! oaken shades, and meads of dewy green,
So oft in sleep, yet
ne’er in waking seen.
Peal out, ye ancient chimes, from vine-clad
Where pray’d my fathers in a vanish’d hour:
years of rev’rence can ye claim
From bygone worshippers that bore my
Their forms are crumbling in the vaults around,
across the sea, but dreamthe sound.
Return, Sweet Vision! Let me
The stone-built abbey, rising o’er the plain;
neighb’ring village with its sun-shower’d square;
mill-stream, and the forest fair,
The hedge-lin’d lane, that leads to
Where sweet contentment is the peasant’s lot:
mystic grove, by Druid wraiths possess’d,
The flow’ring fields, with
And the old manor-house, sedate and dark,
in the shadows of the wooded park.
Can this be dreaming? Must my
That I may catch the fragrance of the rose?
Is it in
fancy that the midnight vale
Thrills with the warblings of the
A golden moon bewitching radiance yields,
England’s fairies trip o’er England’s fields.
England! Old England! in
my love for thee
No dream is mine, but blessed memory;
haunting images and hidden fires
Course with the bounding blood of
From British bodies, minds, and souls I come,
from them draw the vision of their home.
Awake, Columbia! scorn the vulgar age
thee slight thy lordly heritage.
Let not the wide Atlantic’s wildest
Burst the blest bonds that fav’ring Nature gave:
surges ‘twixt the nations run,
Our Saxon souls dissolving into one!