Читать книгу Roughing It in the Bush - Susanna Moodie - Страница 17

Though distant, in spirit still present to me,

My best thoughts, my country, still linger with thee;

My fond heart beats quick, and my dim eyes run o'er,

When I muse on the last glance I gave to thy shore.

The chill mists of night round thy white cliffs were curl'd,

But I felt there was no spot like thee in the world—

No home to which memory so fondly would turn,

No thought that within me so madly would burn.

But one stood beside me whose presence repress'd

The deep pang of sorrow that troubled my breast;

And the babe on my bosom so calmly reclining,

Check'd the tears as they rose, and all useless repining.

Hard indeed was the struggle, from thee forced to roam;

But for their sakes I quitted both country and home.

Bless'd Isle of the Free! I must view thee no more;

My fortunes are cast on this far-distant shore;

In the depths of dark forests my soul droops her wings;

In tall boughs above me no merry bird sings;

The sigh of the wild winds—the rush of the floods—

Is the only sad music that wakens the woods.

In dreams, lovely England! my spirit still hails

Thy soft waving woodlands, thy green, daisied vales.

When my heart shall grow cold to the mother that bore me,

When my soul, dearest Nature! shall cease to adore thee,

And beauty and virtue no longer impart

Delight to my bosom, and warmth to my heart,

Then the love I have cherish'd, my country, for thee,

In the breast of thy daughter extinguish'd shall be.