The Cliffs of Dover.
“The inviolate Island of the sage and free.”—Byron.
Rocks of my country! let the cloud
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:
Oh! thus for ever 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.
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.
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!
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
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 blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea;
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!