FAREWELL TO ENGLAND

I've trod my last step on thy strand,
And I am on thy wave,
To seek a home in some far land,
But haply find a grave:
I care not where my bones are laid, —
Who wraps them in their sheet;
I care not where my grave is made,
If trod by human feet.

My mother, England, once thou wert,
And I would be thy son;
The tears I shed in sorrow start,
But fall for thee alone!
I love thee, though thou lovest not me,
And like a lover yearn;
For though I turn mine eyes from thee,
My heart I cannot turn.

The sea runs high, the ship dips low,
The wide waves overwhelm;
The crew are lashed above — below,
The helmsman to his helm: —
Rage on, rage on, thou wrecking wind, —
Roll on, thou weltering sea;
Ye cannot be more cold unkind
Than man hath been to me!

I care not for these tempest-gales, —
Their rage will soon be spent;
I care not for our riven sails, —
My bosom is more rent.
The storm will pass, — the angry main
Shall know a day of calm,
But who will make thee whole again,
And give thy wounds a balm!

Thy sons were strong, and brave, and bold;
Thou wert the ocean's heart;
But Power hath drained their veins for gold,
And sapped thy vital part:
They dare not think of what they were,
Nor say what they would be;
For England now herself doth fear,
Who feared no enemy!

Thy bow was strong at Agincourt,
Thy lance did stain Poictiers;
Thy strength shall be a cause for sport,
As now it is for tears!
There's one for wine, shall give thee gall,
And laugh at thy last tear:
And some shall triumph in thy fall,
Who thought of thee with fear.

Farewell! I cannot think of thee,
And not feel pale with fear;
I cannot dread what thou may'st be,
Without a shuddering tear:
I pale not at the wrecking wind,
Nor weep the awful sea,
Though they are fell, and fierce unkind, —
I weep and pale for thee!