Laudabunt Alii

Let others tell of far away, Of peoples strange and cities gay, Of mighty hills and rushing streams, More fair than hope, more grand than dreams. But England — give me England yet. Land the heart can ne'er forget; Where bounteous nature's riches all, With man's to aid, are found in small. As where wood and ferned hill Grace the gently flowing folds Of slumberous Wye, whose bosom holds All wealth of green by Tintern, till A view majestic bursts upon The sight to Chepstow, and 'tis gone, Clear from the hills, to join its course With rolling Severn, and the force Of endless ocean, past the home Of princely merchants, whence have come Men who ventured lands unknown, And threatening hills, and isles alone. And over seas uncharted went, And left enduring monument In Canynge's soaring house of prayer. And Temple's rounded pillars fair. Of pious faith and love their own. Southward thence my steps I turn Where Mendip calls me, and I burn To see once more the stretching plain Beneath me, and behold again The hill, where yet dead ages reign By haunted Glaston — there the rest Of Arthur and of Guinevere, And Lancelot, of his knights the best ; Remains the spell. And now I go O'er the old stone fences low By Cheddar's cliffs, as yester year, And by the lonely mines, and so To where, 'neath Mendip's nestling breast, I'll find the fairest and the best, Methinks, of all the lovely west; For there it crouches — ay, 'tis there. Fragrant with beauty, safe from care Beside the waters, ever-sweet Beloved Wells ! And there 'tis meet Where saints have praised of old, I praise The God who thus inspired to raise These living arches' span, and mould These breathing capitals of old. And plan the Chapter's octave-sweep. Here, in the place I love the best, The home of sweetness and of rest. Or may I awful silence keep Amid the brown, mysterious waves Of Purbeck's hills, where Lulworth laves Its curved shores, and Corfe uprears Its windy turrets, grey with years. Or bid me seek the early flow Of 'stripling Thames,' and happy go Where swelling Cotswold hides his birth. And loving hollows of the earth Hold me alone from all but heaven. Thence, by many a hidden town, Where his silvery path is driven, Down I'll go, and gently down To Oxford city, home of peace And patient learning's still increase, Where Newman strove and Keble prayed, And Morris, in that cloistered shade Of Beauty, found it 'mid the past. And toiled to make the world at last Lovely, through work and beauty wed, As once, he dreamed, in days long dead. And on I'll go to Dorchester, And bid adieu the river there. And enter the long Church and pray 'Mid beauty of an earlier day. So to those bare hills I come, Whence I may view my final home. I shall stand where runs the Horse In ceaseless and unmoving course By Uffington, and gaze around On many leagues of smiling ground, Bleak hills and leafy vale, as forth I gaze on pasture to the north, And Chiltern east and Cotswold west ; Yet from all the lovely rest Southward with sudden joy I turn To where I dimly can discern The tufted trees that shade on high. Distant against the clouds and sky, The mighty head of Barbury ! And so to those dear lands I know I'll go, as once I used to go. By Liddington and hidden Snap (Lost in the rolling downs' green lap). By Poulton, or Four Miler's head, Where I seem to grandly tread Above the earth, or Savernake; And so my joyful road I'll take To happy Marlborough, name to wake Sweet ghosts of memory, for the sake Of pleasures gone, but dwelling yet Secure where heart can ne'er forget ! There I'll go, and there I'U dwell Amid the ever-happy spell Of friendship's laughter, ever-new, As in memory, firm and true. So, in weak and faltering phrase, Have I dreamed that I would praise With loving heart the glorious land Of England, where the generous hand Of nature still has lavished free All beauty, and has given me To love it, wood and field and sea. And flowing stream and barren hill. Alive or dead, I'll love them still.