“I rested there so long, so well,
More grateful than all tongues can tell.
It was such pleasant thing to hear
That valley’s voices calm and clear:
“That valley veiled in mountain air,
With white goats on the hills at morn;
That valley green with seas of corn,
With cottage islands here and there.
“I watched the mountain girls. The hay
They mowed was not more sweet than they;
They laid brown hands in my white hair;
They marvelled at my face of care.
“I tried to laugh; I could but weep.
I made these peasants one request,—
That I with them might toil or rest,
And with them sleep the long, last sleep.
“I begged that I might battle there,
For that fair valley-land, for those
Who gave me cheer when girt with foes,
And have a country, loved and fair.
“Where is that spot that poets name
Our country? name the hallowed land?
Where is that spot where man must stand
Or fall when girt with sword and flame?
“Where is that one permitted spot?
Where is the one place man must fight?
Where rests the one God-given right
To fight, as ever patriots fought?
“I say ’t is in that holy house
Where God first set us down on earth:
Where mother welcomed us at birth,
And bared her breasts, a happy spouse.
“But when some wrong, some deed of shame,
Shall make that land no more our own—
Ah! hunger for that holy name
My country, I have truly known!
“The simple plough-boy from his field
Looks forth. He sees God’s purple wall
Encircling him. High over all
The vast sun wheels his shining shield.