Yet not, indeed, ah not till more than sea And more than space divide my love and me, Till more than waves and winds between us swell, Farewell, a last, indeed, a last farewell * * * * * Ye flags of Piccadilly, Where I posted up and down, And wished myself so often Well away from you and town,— Are the people walking quietly And steady on their feet, Cabs and omnibuses plying Just as usual in the street? Do the houses look as upright As of old they used to be, And does nothing seem affected By the pitching of the sea? Through the Green Park iron railings Do the quick pedestrians pass? Are the little children playing Round the plane-tree in the grass? This squally wild north-wester With which our vessel fights, Does it merely serve with you to Carry up some paper kites? Ye flags of Piccadilly, Which I hated so, I vow I could wish with all my heart You were underneath me now! * * * * * Come home, come home! and where is home for me, Whose ship is driving o’er the trackless sea? To the frail bark here plunging on its way, To the wild waters, shall I turn and say To the plunging bark, or to the salt sea foam, You are my home? Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew, Familiar things so old my heart believed them true, These far, far back, behind me lie, before The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar, And speak to them that ’neath and o’er them roam No words of home. Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar, There may indeed, or may not be, a shore, Where fields as green, and hands and hearts as true, The old forgotten semblance may renew, And offer exiles driven far o’er the salt sea foam Another home. But toil and pain must wear out many a day, And days bear weeks, and weeks bear months away, Ere, if at all, the weary traveller hear, With accents whispered in his wayworn ear, A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come To thy true home. Come home, come home! and where a home hath he Whose ship is driving o’er the driving sea? Through clouds that mutter, and o’er waves that roar, Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a shore That is, as is not ship or ocean foam, Indeed our home? 1852 * * * * * Green fields of England! wheresoe’er Across this watery waste we fare, Your 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. 1852 * * * * *