And very often, as I gaze,
Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,
Or tread the valley’s wooded ways
Where we’ve roved many a time:
Delightful scenes that I would fain,
Before I sleep, behold again.
Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:
Old Table Mountain’s always grand,
Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;
The Maker’s bounteous hand,
From which all beauty hath its birth,
Made this far corner of His earth.
Yet must a Briton love his home
The more for absence, as I ween,
And greatly do I long to roam
Through daisied meadows green,
Perchance made dulcet by the swell
Of distant chiming village bell.
O for a field of new mown hay,
A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;
A springtide scent of virgin May,
Or a glimpse of an ivied church!
To tramp the stubbles of the corn
Upon a fresh September morn;
To tread once more with gladsome feet
The thronging street, the busy mart;
To feel again the mighty beat
Of England’s wondrous heart!
But, though I long, I murmur not,
For Heaven appoints each human lot.
You know not how we exiles prize
This modern photographic art,
Portraying to our grateful eyes,
Exact in every part,
Kindred and friends forever dear;
We gaze, and almost think you here.
Your picture’s somewhat faded now,
But to fond memory it shows
Your very self; oft mark I how
You wear your homely clothes.
You know what one professor teaches,
And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]
And oft I sit by your fireside,
And share your daily household life;
Upon my knees the youngsters ride,
Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.
Give them my love, and tell them, pray,
Not to forget me far away.
Let time and age do all they can,
And let it fade, if fade it will,
This portrait of a sterling man
Shall grace my chamber still;
And I its dimmest lines shall trace,
Until I meet him face to face.
G. Longmore.