Through England, doubt not, for the song
So tender was, so sadly strong,

I surely think that long ere this,

Is yours, and that they must have come
To tell you England called you home.

                                                        II.

For you on England have a claim,
’Tis meet that she should know your name,

Surely for you a welcome waits,
Surely for you are opened gates,

And Christmas cheer, and hearth-side kiss,

The merry horns that roam the wood,
And rouse the merry hunting mood.

O even as I write, perchance,
Maid Marian leads you forth to dance;

In Sherwood once with Robin Hood.
Perchance already you have stood

Knee-deep in English grass and fern,

Leap like a prisoner to the air,
Who had forgotten earth was fair.

Was this your dream? And have they come
To tell you England calls you home?

From land of pines and snowy land,
—All, all is snow on every hand,

And gray and white are all I see,

To one who in a warmer clime
Blows the bright bubble of his rhyme,

And plies his task with half a heart,
Standing from other men apart

In this drear north—the words that burn
With exile past and sweet return

Of English joys and games and glades,

Because his wish was also mine,
And is and always will be mine,

The wish, the hope—to end my days
In England, and with English ways

Born of her myths and mystery,
Born of her wondrous history,

And of her beauty—ah! I swear

In this new land of clearer skies,
Than English mists that shyly rise

From off shy streams or ivied walls.
Or cling about fair ruined halls,

And O—for glimpse of English green,
I well could give my soul, I ween.

I never pulled a primrose, I,

E’en now some small and hidden seed
Below, within, some English mead,

Waiting for sun and rain to make
A flower of it for my poor sake,

Or reared a banner, peered a star,
Or curved a cup in woods afar.

A grave in England! Surely there

My rest may some sweet day be found,
And I shall sleep in tranquil ground,

While English violets bloom anear,
—But who am I? And who may hear

                                                        IV.

I am no merry archer bold—
In sooth, I know not how to hold

A bow and arrow! This your claim,

I ne’er will question. Singer too
Of noble songs! I have, ’tis true,

A little written, some things done,
But dare not hope that any one

To know the deeds her children do
And merge her old life in our new.

                                                        V.

And shall I quarrel with you, then,

The bow and arrow? Nay, not so,
For that would ill accord with flow

Of yearning tears and brow tight clasped,
And words in swift confusion gasped,

These lines to you that you may know
Your lines to one soul straight did go,

And dare to hope that when the boon

I know must be, and they will come
To tell you England calls you home)

You will remember when you see
A pale new primrose deck the lea,

And meanwhile wonder how she dare,
If she were there—if she were there!

                                                        VI.

And now I charge you, when the call

Only to rise with hastening feet
And press towards the ocean sweet,

No more a barrier but a bridge,
And later, when you see the ridge

See that you faint not, let your heart
Full thankful be that yet a part

In England’s history you can play,

                                                        VII.

My words are vain. I know ere this
The looked-for, long expected bliss

Is yours and that they must have come
To tell you England calls you home.