A FAREWELL TO WALES.
225
I bless thee!—yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
—Green land, Poet-land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies,
For thy cottage hearths, burning the stranger[1] to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes!
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread,
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!
Q
- ↑ errata
