But Hertha's not thine only goddess, O Earth!
IV.
For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,
Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring
In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;
Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,
More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;
Some living love our England for thee bare.
V.
Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea,