Happy the man whose toil

Leads on laborious hills;

The rock beneath the soil

The measure of his ills.

Happiest, who can go forth

Thro’ every age and clime,

His home the whole of earth,

His heritage all time.

In vasty Wilds and with

No crimson petals pranckt

The shallow briars breathe

And bloom and die unthankt.

And we the useless Briar,

And round us Desert spread

The red Sun rolls his fire

And smites the Desert dead;

Death, Silence, and the Star

With scornful nostrils curl’d;

And half-forgotten, far,

The movements of the world.

II

One hour released I rusht

About the world again;

The living thousands crusht;

The streets were full of rain;

I felt the north wind sting

And glory’d in the sleet;

I heard my footsteps ring

Along the frosty street;

And saw—less seen than felt—

Swift-flashing Italy,

And that bright city built

Upon the mirroring Sea.

III

My country, my England, home,

Are thy flowers bright, thy bells

Ringing the spring welcome,

The winter long farewells?

Are thy fields fair—each flower

Fill’d with the heav’nly dew,

My country, at this hour

When I am thinking of you?

Art thou so far, so fair?

Across what leagues of foam,

My country? Art thou still there,

My England, my country, my home?

IV

This hateful desert land

Is pent by a great sea

That booms upon the strand

For ever. Salt the sea

And salt the shore; the thorn

And cactus stand and gaze

Upon these waves; new-born

The young grass ends her days;

Straightly the beach is lined.

I wander to the shore.

The sunset dies behind,

The full moon springs before.

Of these great Deeps that link

The land I love with this,

I wander to the brink,

I watch the waters kiss

This lonely shore. O Waves,

O Winds and Waters, where

My country? Sing, O Waves,

And tell me of it here.

O Night? O Moon that comest,

A sad face fronting mine?

O dusking Deep that boomest,

What tidings of it thine?

V

O Homeland, at this hour

What joys are thine? This moon

What lovers in what bower

Sees? and what jocund tune

From smoky villages

Is heard? What homely light

Shines welcome through the trees?

What watch-dog barks delight?

What lingering linnet flings

Her good-night in the air?

What honeysuckle rings

Her chime of fragrance there?

One moment, and I see

The cot, the lane, the light,

The moon behind the tree,

The evening turn to night;

One moment know the scent

Of smoke of fragrant fires,

And hear the cattle pent

Within the wattled byres.

One moment—and I wake;

The vision fades and falls;

These lifeless deserts make

Me adamantine walls.