Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2239/Forth

my own waves that thunder on the shore; Not my own wild wind sweeping o'er the seas; Not my own music in the mighty roar That makes its chords of all the yellowing trees; Not my own skies that shine in gloom and gleam, Over the turbid waters in their strife; Not my own wide horizon's pale grey dream, In yon faint glimpse of the fair hills of Fife. Yet, as two meeting in a foreign land, Hailing the subtle link of glance or tone, Stretch eagerly to clasp a kindred hand, That pulses with the blood that warms his own, So, yearning always for my English North, I linger, listening lovingly, by Forth.