Felicia Hemans

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to whorship God.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine, The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine.

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed.

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,— Part of the brim was gone: Yet still I wore it on.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Oh, call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone: The summer comes with flower and bee,— Where is my brother gone?

The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land.

The flames roll'd on­-he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Alas for love, if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth!

They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee: Their graves are severed far and wide By mount and stream and sea.

But fair the exil'd Palm-tree grew Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Through the laburnum’s dropping gold Rose the light shaft of Orient mould, And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung his tassels forth.

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now!

In the busy haunts of men.