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Rh What is it lights the dark and sunken eye, And calls a red flush to the pallid cheek? Mark the unclosing lips, the deep drawn sigh, One foot advanced, both hands outstretehed,—they speak!— Ten seconds pass, and lo! the gladdened crew Send up a cheerful sound to heaven—"Land!—land!"— Like guardian spirits o'er the waters blue The cliffs of old and happy England stand!

On, on they sail; and now there come in sight Small cottages among the autumn trees, Looking so happy in the morning light, Their smoke up-curling to the fresh sea-breeze;— They might have almost heard the reaper's tone Of joy, as merrily he paced along; Yet there the Exile stood, alone—alone— And once again he breathed his thoughts in song.

Oh, England!—oh, my English home! I see thee through the white sea-foam, And feel my strength awhile return, My heart-pulse boat, my temples burn With joy,—although I come to lay My bones beside my fathers' clay, And sleep the long unbroken sleep From which we cannot wake to weep. Land of pure women and brave men! Proud mistress of the earth and sea!— I hail thy blessed shores again, Home of the great, the good, the free!

Where feudal rights are history's themes, And thraldom-woes forgotten dreams;— Where man may sleep beneath the shade Of equal laws himself has made— May look within himself and find The dignity of human kind, And proudly walk his chosen path, Lord of himself and all he hath; Free as the winds, none dare upbraid, Safe as the stars that o'er him shine, He sits, "none making him afraid, Beneath his fig-tree and his vine."—

Where knowledge—boundless as the wind, As pure, as free, as unconfined— Asks entrance at the meanest door; Where Plenty clothes and feeds the poor; Where banned by law is no man's creed— Where heavenward many pathways lead; Where all, by six days' toil oppressed, Upon the seventh day find rest; Where sober judgment daily grows With gradual, yet with sure, increase; Where Reason lifts the veil, and shows Religion hand in hand with Peace.

Where labour knows reward is sure, And thought and care make coin secure; Where water springs to gladden land, And breezes wave the cheering hand; Where gentle sun and genial shower, Alternate, call forth fruit and flower— The golden ore his garden yields— Blessing his green and yellow fields, That hostile footsteps never fear, Save of small birds that flit among The corn, when harvest-time is near:— Small debtors they, who pay in song.

Where honest Trade, in all her streets, Fears not a single face he meets, But fairly barters, freely tells To all, of all he buys or sells; Where, at the loom, the artizan Feels that his skill is worthy man; And craftsmen call from gloomy stones The metal Science proudly owns; Where Commerce, with ten thousand sails, Fills all her ports with wealth and fame, And every stranger-merchant hails The British merchant's spotless name.

The sun that saw the Exile tread again His native land, sent down at eve a light To cheer his bed of death, but not of pain— The Exile was at home, asleep, ere night. And gentle tones of blessing he had heard— Ere life went forth from worn and wearied clay— Telling of that long-forgotten word— Teaching his heart and lips once more to pray!

Oh! ye who dream of fruitful hills and vales Where fabled milk and fabled honey flow, And hear the wicked or the idle tales Of men who lead the way to misery—know The meaning of the humble song I sing— The moral of my mournful tale: 'Tis said In the prophetic words of Israel's king,—