Chapter CVII: Spring Thoughts

My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away,
It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May.

Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside
Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride;

Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note
Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat.

O England, island England, if it has been my lot
To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not,

I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows,
The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose,

The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled,
The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world:

I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured trees,
The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas.

The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes,
The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide comes.

Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed,
The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste,

Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be
Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea!

And keep for those who leave thee and find no better place,
The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother face!

_Sir Rennell Rodd._

WATSON

CVIII

ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES

She stands, a thousand wintered tree,
By countless morns impearled;
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea,
Her branches sweep the world;
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed,
Clothe the remotest strand
With forests from her scatterings made,
New nations fostered in her shade,
And linking land with land.

O ye by wandering tempest sown
’Neath every alien star,
Forget not whence the breath was blown
That wafted you afar!
For ye are still her ancient seed
On younger soil let fall--
Children of Britain’s island-breed,
To whom the Mother in her need
Perchance may one day call.

_William Watson._

DOYLE