Where are your splendid halls, which ladies tread,
Your lordly boards, with every luxury spread,
Virginian sires,—ye men of old renown?
Though few and faint,—your ever-living chain
Holds in its grasp two worlds, across the surging main.
viii.
Yet who can tell what fearful pangs of woe
Those weary-hearted colonists await,
When to its home the parting ship must go,
And leave them in their exile, desolate?
Ah, who can paint the peril and the pain,
The failing harvest, and the famish'd train,
The wily foe, with ill-dissembled hate,
The sickness of the heart, the wan despair,
Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air?
ix.
Yet, 'mid their cares, one hallow'd dome they rear'd,
To nurse devotion's consecrated flame,—
And there, a wondering world of forests heard,
First borne in solemn chant, Jehovah's name,—
First temple to his service, refuge dear
From strong affliction, and the alien's tear;—
How swell'd the sacred song, in glad acclaim,—
England, sweet mother! many a fervent prayer
There pour'd its praise to Heaven, for all thy love and care.
