The rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad,
On Sabbath day all neatly clad:--
Methinks I see them wend their way
On some refulgent morn of May,
By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare,
Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!
I can love _all_ lovely lands,
But England _most_; for she commands.
As if she bore a parent's part,
The dearest movements of my heart;
And here I may not breathe her name.
Without a thrill through all my frame.
Never shall this heart be cold
To thee, my country! till the mould
(Or _thine_ or _this_) be o'er it spread.
And form its dark and silent bed.
I never think of bliss below
But thy sweet hills their green heads show,
Of love and beauty never dream.
But English faces round me gleam!
D.L.R.
I have often observed that children never wear a more charming aspect
than when playing in fields and gardens. In another volume I have
recorded some of my impressions respecting the prominent interest
excited by these little flowers of humanity in an English landscape.
* * * * *
THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.
When I re-visited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary
years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable
delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise.
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