A GOOD TIME GOING

Brave singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme, The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,[4] Good-bye! Good-bye!—Our hearts and hands, Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, Cry, God be with him, till he stands His feet among the English daisies! 'Tis here we part;—for other eyes The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, The dripping arms that plunge and rise, The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, The kerchiefs waving from the pier, The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, The deep blue desert, lone and drear, With heaven above and home before him! His home!—the Western giant smiles, And twirls the spotty globe to find it;— This little speck the British Isles? 'Tis but a freckle,—never mind it! He laughs, and all his prairies roll, Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, And ridges stretched from pole to pole Heave till they crack their iron knuckles! But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honour turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant: "An islet is a world," she said, "When glory with its dust has blended, And Britain keeps her noble dead Till earth and seas and skies are rended!" Beneath each swinging forest-bough Some arm as stout in death reposes,— From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow Her valour's life-blood runs in roses; Nay, let our brothers of the West Write smiling in their florid pages, One-half her soil has walked the rest In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages! Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, The British oak with rooted grasp Her slender handful holds together; With cliffs of white and bowers of green, And Ocean narrowing to caress her, And hills and threaded streams between;— Our little mother isle, God bless her!