CLIFTON. 3C7
With Ocean s kingly message.
Here we stand,
To take our last farewell of England s shore ; And mid the graceful domes that smile serene Through their embowering shades, recognize one, Where she, who gave to Barley- Wood its fame, Breathed her last breath. T is meet that she should be Remembered by that sex, whom long she strove In their own sheltered sphere to elevate, And rouse to higher aims than Fashion gives. Methinks I see her mid yon parlor nook, In arm-chair seated, calm in reverend age, While that benevolence, which prompted toils For high and low, precepts for royal ears, And horn-book teachings for the cottage child And shepherd-boy, still brightens in her eye, Auspicious image for this parting hour.
I give thee thanks, Old England ! full of years, Yet passing fair. Thy castles ivy-crowned, Thy vast cathedrals, where old Time doth pause, Like an o erspent destroyer, and lie down, Feigning to sleep, and let their glory pass, Thy mist-encircled hills, thy peaceful lakes, Opening their bosoms mid the velvet meads, Thy verdant hedges with their tufted bloom, Thy cottage children, ruddy as the flowers That make their thatch-roofed homes so beautiful, But more than all, those mighty minds that leave A lasting footprint on the sands of time,
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