From leafy lane and valley, Fair glebe and ancient wood, The counties of old England Poured forth their warmest blood. Out of the gray-walled cities, Away from the castled towns, Corners of thatch and roses, Heathery combes and downs, With neither crown nor penny, But an iron will they came, Heirs of an old tradition And a good old English name. A brooding silence met them On a nameless, savage shore; But they called the wild—“New England,” For the sake of the blood they bore. “_Plymouth_, _Exeter_, _Bristol_, _Boston_, _Windsor_, _Wells_.” Beloved names of England Rang in their hearts like bells. They named their rocky farmlands, Their hamlets by the sea, For the mother-towns that bred them In racial loyalty. “_Cambridge_, _Hartford_, _Gloucester_, _Hampton_, _Norwich_, _Stowe_.” The younger sons looked backward And sealed their sonship so. The old blood thrills in answer, As centuries go by, To names that meant a challenge, A signal, or a sigh. Now over friendly waters The old towns, each to each, Call with the kinship in a name; One race, one truth, one speech. COMFORTERS