The sickness of the heart, the wan despair,
Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air?
IX.
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.
X.
Of some proud minster of the olden time,
Or where the vast cathedral toward the cloud
Rear'd its dark pile, in symmetry sublime,
While through the storied pane the sunbeam play’d,
Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade,
Now breath'd from humblest fane their ancient chime:
And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell
With every seeking soul, though bow'd in lowliest cell?
XI.
The fragrant offspring of the genial morn
They duly brought; and fondly offer'd there
The bud that trembles ere the rose is born,
The blue clematis, and the jasmine pale,
The scarlet woodbine, waving in the gale,
The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn,
