Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?

My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield,
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not--yet say can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.

I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul's late, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;
I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar,
Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling roar;
I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd,
I ne'er could see too many of the wonders God has shower'd;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven,
Could I forget _our_ summer sky, _our_ Windermere and Devon?

I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land,
Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know,
And little reck "the place of birth," or colour of the brow;
Yet though I hail'd a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast;
I'd point to hundreds who have done the most 'ere done by man,
And cry "There's England's glory scroll," do better if you can!