Poems (Cook)/England
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ENGLAND.
My heart is pledged in wedded faith to England's "merry isle;"
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade;
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throngs its mart of trade.
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes, ere now has lower'd to our own.
Look round the globe, and tell me, can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade;
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throngs its mart of trade.
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes, ere now has lower'd to our own.
Look round the globe, and tell me, can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?
My soul is link'd, right tenderly, to every shady copse;
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron-tree or spicy grove, for me would never yield
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
I thread the wood, I rob the hedge, and glad content is mine;
Although they lack the orange-branch, pomegranate, date, and vine.
I covet not the rarest fruit exotic region shows,
While England has its hazel-nuts, its blackberries and sloes.
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron-tree or spicy grove, for me would never yield
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
I thread the wood, I rob the hedge, and glad content is mine;
Although they lack the orange-branch, pomegranate, date, and vine.
I covet not the rarest fruit exotic region shows,
While England has its hazel-nuts, its blackberries and sloes.
I'll ask if there's a British boy—whate'er may be his rank—
Who does not dearly love to climb his native bramble bank;
Who would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track;
Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand, and basket at his back?
Our songsters, too, say, can we breathe of them one slighting word!
Their plumage dazzles not—but yet can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush;
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.
Who does not dearly love to climb his native bramble bank;
Who would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track;
Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand, and basket at his back?
Our songsters, too, say, can we breathe of them one slighting word!
Their plumage dazzles not—but yet can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush;
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.
I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;
I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar;
Or hearken to the western flood in wild and falling roar.
I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd;
I ne'er could see too many of the wonders that are shower'd;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven;
Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon?
Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;
I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar;
Or hearken to the western flood in wild and falling roar.
I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd;
I ne'er could see too many of the wonders that are shower'd;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven;
Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon?
I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land,
Nor would I ask his chime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know;
And little recks "the place of birth," or colour of the brow.
Yet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of Fame would rise within my breast;
I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man;
And cry, "There's England's glory scroll—show brighter if ye can!"
Nor would I ask his chime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know;
And little recks "the place of birth," or colour of the brow.
Yet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of Fame would rise within my breast;
I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man;
And cry, "There's England's glory scroll—show brighter if ye can!"