III.

Twelve slow and chequered years had passed.—­Again
A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main,
And waves and days together glided by,
Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast’s eye,
His island home rose from the ocean’s breast—­
A thing of strength, of glory, and of rest—­
The giant of the deep!—­while on his sight
Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white—­
Stronger than death! and beautiful as strong! 
Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song! 
“Home of my fathers!” the Enthusiast cried;
“Their home—­ay, and their grave!” he said and sighed. 
But gazing still upon its glorious strand,
Again he cried, “My own, my honoured land! 
Fair freedom’s home and mine!  Britannia! hail! 
Queen of the mighty seas; to whom each gale
From every point of heaven a tribute brings,
And on thy shores earth’s farthest treasure flings! 
Land of my heart and birth! at sight of thee
My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free
From long captivity!  Thy very air
Is fragrant with remembrance!  Thou dost bear,
On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal
Of godlike Liberty!  The slave might kneel
Upon thy shore, bending the willing knee,
To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free! 
Even I feel freer as I reach thy shore,
And my soul mingles with the ocean’s roar
That hymns around thee!  Birthplace of the brave! 
My own—­my glorious home!—­the very wave,
Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high,
As if rejoicing on thy beach to die! 
My loved—­my father-land! thy faults to me
Are as the specks which men at noontide see
Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale
Beneath thy virtue’s and thy glory’s veil. 
Land of my birth! where’er thy sons may roam,
Their pride—­their boast—­their passport is their home!”

IV.

’Twas early spring; and winter lingered still
On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill;
The day was closing, and slow darkness stole
Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul,
Sealing the eyelids up—­unconscious, slow,
Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know,
On waking, that we slept—­but may not tell;
Nor marked we when sleep’s darkness on us fell. 
A lonely stranger then bent anxious o’er
A rustic gate before the cottage door—­
The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew,
And o’er its roof their arching branches threw. 
It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears,
On the now cheerless home of early years—­
While as the grave of buried joys it stood,
Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood;
The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare;
The parterre, erst the object of his care,
With early weeds o’ergrown; and slow decay
Had changed or swept all else he loved away. 
Upon the sacred threshold, once his own,