Poor!—­oh! ’tis rich in all
  That flows from Nature’s hand;
Rich in the emerald wall
  That guards its emerald land! 
Are Italy’s fields more green? 
  Do they teem with a richer store
Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West,
  And its wild, luxuriant shore? 
      Ah! no! no! no! 
        Upon it heaven doth smile;
      Oh, I never would roam from my native home,
        My own dear isle!

LOVE’S LANGUAGE.

Need I say how much I love thee?—­
  Need my weak words tell,
That I prize but heaven above thee,
  Earth not half so well? 
If this truth has failed to move thee,
  Hope away must flee;
If thou dost not feel I love thee,
  Vain my words would be!

Need I say how long I’ve sought thee—­
  Need my words declare,
Dearest, that I long have thought thee
  Good and wise and fair? 
If no sigh this truth has brought thee,
  Woe, alas! to me;
Where thy own heart has not taught thee,
  Vain my words would be!

Need I say when others wooed thee,
  How my breast did pine,
Lest some fond heart that pursued thee
  Dearer were than mine? 
If no pity then came to thee,
  Mixed with love for me,
Vainly would my words imbue thee,
  Vain my words would be!

Love’s best language is unspoken,
  Yet how simply known;
Eloquent is every token,
  Look, and touch, and tone. 
If thy heart hath not awoken,
  If not yet on thee
Love’s sweet silent light hath broken,
  Vain my words would be!

Yet, in words of truest meaning,
  Simple, fond, and few;
By the wild waves intervening,
  Dearest, I love you! 
Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning,
  If, long since to thee,
My fond heart required unscreening,
  Vain my words will be!

THE FIRESIDE.

I have tasted all life’s pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys,
The dance’s merry measures and the revel’s festive noise;
Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide,
I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside!

In boyhood’s dreams I wandered far across the ocean’s breast,
In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest;
I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide
Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside!

How sweet to turn at evening’s close from all our cares away,
And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day! 
The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride,
All fairy ground doth make around one’s own fireside!

“My Lord” would never condescend to honour my poor hearth;
“His Grace” would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth;
And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified,
For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside!