Had chance Voyagers beheld him,
In a trance, who slumbering bore,
By some heavenly impulse, guided
Him unto his native shore?
Not so—says the holy legend—
Force of penitential prayer—
And the love he bore the Virgin—
Won for him that transit fair.
Spare the legend for its beauty—
Carp not—what is it to you
If the letter is a fable?
In its spirit it is true.
Leave we unto old tradition
That which its dim mist sublimes,
Nor submit the ancient spirit
To the light of later times!
See! before his welcome threshold!
Once again, Sir Francis stand:
Oh! the transport,—it is real!—
He is in his native land!
Part III.
Merry once again is England,
Civil warfare is forgot;
Now another Charles is reigning
Plenty smiles in hall and cot.
Spring is like a present angel;
Loosened waters leap in light:
Flowers are springing, birds are singing,
All the world is glad and bright.
May, the blue-eyed bloomy creature,
From God's presence yearly sent,
Works with sweet ethereal fingers,
Till both heaven and earth are blent.
Lovliest is a rural village
In the May-time of the year;
With its hall, its woods and waters,
Verdant slopes, and herds of deer.