The Suppliant

Beyond the sea a land of heroes lies, Of fairy heaths and rivers, mountains steep, O'ergrown with vine — her memory I shall keep Most dear, her heritage most dearly prize. But lo, a lad, I left her, and mine eyes Fell on the sea-girt mistress of the deep, What time my boy's heart heard as in a sleep The choral walls of rhythmic beauty rise. O lyric England, thee I call mine own; With lyre and lute and wreath I come to thee; The realm is thine of song and of the sea, And thy mouth's speech is heard from zone to zone: Turn not in scorn thine ivied brow from me, Who am a suppliant kneeling at thy throne!