Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/157

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The kitten fair, whose graceful wile, So oft had won his musing smile, As round his slippered foot she played, Stretched on his vacant pillow laid. While strewed around, on board and chair, The last plucked flower, the book last read, The ready pen, the page outspread, The water-cruise, the unbroken bread, Revealed how sudden was the snare That swept him to the dead.

And so he rests in foreign earth, Who drew mid Albion's vales his birth; Yet let no cynic phrase unkind Condemn that youth of gentle mind, Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart, And lettered lore, and tuneful art, Who here his humble worship paid, In that most glorious temple-shrine, Where to the Majesty divine Nature her noblest altar made.

No, blame him not, but praise the Power Who in the dear, domestic bower, Hath given you firmer strength to rear The plants of love, with toil and fear, The beam to meet, the blast to dare, And like a faithful soldier bear;