My hand is lonely for your clasping, dear;
My ear is tired waiting for your call.
I want your strength to help, your laugh to cheer;
Again the solemn season--and again
That bleeding Brow, those wounded Hands and Feet--
Again that piercèd Side my vision meet;
Here are the brows of Quantock, purple--clad
With lavish heath--bloom: there, the banks of Tone.
Where is that woman, love--forlorn and sad,
The sweetest flower that ever saw the light,
The smoothest stream that ever wandered by,
The fairest star upon the brow of night,
Tell me, thou mild and melancholy bird,
Whence learnedst thou that meditative voice?
For all the forest--passages rejoice,
Saviour of them that trust in Thee,
Once more, with supplicating cries,
We lift the heart and bend the knee,
And bid Devotion's incense rise.
The calm of blessed Night
Is on Judaea's hills;
The full--orbed moon with cloudless light
Is sparkling on their rills:
Say wilt thou think of me when I'm away,
Borne from the threshold and laid in the clay,
Past and forgotten for many a day?
My own dear country, thy remembrance comes
Like softly--flowing music on my heart;
With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes,
Who shall declare the secret of thy birth,
Thou old companion of the circling earth?
And having reached with keen poetic sight