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

In the busy haunts of men.

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!

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

There shall be no more snow No weary noontide heat, So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our Fathers trod: To the quiet of the skies: To the Sabbath of our God.

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. . . . . 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 stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land.

Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour, Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart.

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

Rome, Rome, thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat'st a queen.

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain, Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! Though not for thee with classic shores to vie In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought.

I come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountain with light and song: Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own.

Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dread. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien:-- Rome, Rome, thou art no more As thou hast been.

The wind, the wandering wind Of the golden summer eyes-- Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tunes amongst the leaves? Oh, is it from the waters, Or from the long, tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?

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