Classic Poem

— Far beyond the sky-line, where the steamers go,
— There's a cool, green country, there's the land I know;
— Where the gray mist rises from the hidden pool,
— And the dew falls softly on the meadows cool.
When the exile's death has claimed me it is there my soul shall fly,
To the pleasant English country, when my time has come to die;
Where the west wind on the uplands echoes back the sea-bird's cry —
Oh! it's there my soul will hasten though it's here my bones must lie.

— From the many temples, tinkling bells ring clear,
— But a fairer music in my heart I hear —
— Lilt of English skylark, plash of woodland streams,
— Songs of thrush and blackbird fill my waking dreams.
In each pause from work and worry, it is there my thoughts will fly,
To the pleasant English country with the pearly, misty sky —
And the present's toil and trouble fade and cease and pass me by —
Oh! it's there I fain would wander, but it's here my bones must lie.

— Hard and hot the sky spreads, one unchanging glare,
— Far and wide the earth lies burnt and brown and bare,
— Sunset brings no solace, night-time no redress,
— Still the breathless silence mocks the land's distress.
So my thoughts recross the waters to the spring-times long gone by,
Passed 'mid English woods and pastures, 'neath a softer, sweeter sky;
For when death shall end my exile, thither will my spirit fly —
Oh! it's there my soul shall wander, though it's here my bones must lie.