Their purport not the Pearl of our desire.
Loved are these confines as immortal clime,
And dear the hearth-flame as the altar fire;
When fate accomplished wins her utmost bourne,
And fulness ousts for aye fair images,
Will doting mem'ry from their funeral pyre
Rise phœnix-wise and earth-sick spirits yearn
For fragrant flower, and sward, and changeful trees,
For storied rose, and sweet poetic morn,
For sound of bird, and brook, and murmuring bees,