O, to be in England, Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf, Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows-- Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower, --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! _Robert Browning._ LXXI HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; ‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’--say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. _Robert Browning._ MACKAY LXXII A SONG OF ENGLAND There’s a land, a dear land, where the rights of the free, Though firm as the earth are as wide as the sea; Where the primroses bloom, and the nightingales sing, And the honest poor man is as good as a king. Showery! Flowery! Tearful! Cheerful! England, wave-guarded and green to the shore! West Land! Best Land! Thy Land! My Land! Glory be with her, and Peace evermore! There’s a land, a dear land, where our vigour of soul, Is fed by the tempests that blow from the Pole; Where a slave cannot breathe, or invader presume, To ask for more earth than will cover his tomb. Sea Land! Free Land! Fairest! Rarest! Home of brave men, and the girls they adore! Fearless! Peerless! Thy Land! My Land! Glory be with her, and Peace evermore! _Charles Mackay._ CLOUGH LXXIII GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND Green fields of England! wheresoe’er Across this watery waste we fare, One image at our hearts we bear, Green fields of England everywhere. Sweet eyes in England, I must flee Past where the waves’ last confines be, Ere your loved smile I cease to see, Sweet eyes in England, dear to me! Dear home in England, safe and fast If but in thee my lot lie cast, The past shall seem a nothing past To thee, dear home, if won at last; Dear home in England, won at last! _Arthur Hugh Clough._ LXXIV THE RALLY