Mother Country
(Macmillan’s Magazine, March 1868.)
Oh what is that countryAnd where can it be,Not mine own country,But dearer far to me?Yet mine own country,If I one day may seeIts spices and cedars,Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreamingIt rises, that land: 10There rises before meIts green golden strand,With its bowing cedarsAnd its shining sand;It sparkles and flashesLike a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearerWhile I lie and long?I see their soft plumageAnd catch their windy song, 20Like the rise of a high tideSweeping full and strong;I mark the outskirtsOf their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,Or what is a boor?Here all starve together,All dwarfed and poor;Here Death’s hand knockethAt door after door, 30He thins the dancersFrom the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid,Or what is a queen?All must lie down togetherWhere the turf is green,The foulest face hidden,The fairest not seen;Gone as if never,They had breathed or been. 40
Gone from sweet sunshineUnderneath the sod,Turned from warm flesh and bloodTo senseless clod,Gone as if neverThey had toiled or trod,Gone out of sight of allExcept our God.
Shut into silenceFrom the accustomed song, 50Shut into solitudeFrom all earth’s throng,Run down tho’ swift of foot,Thrust down tho’ strong;Life made an end ofSeemed it short or long.
Life made an end of,Life but just begun,Life finished yesterday,Its last sand run; 60Life new-born with the morrow,Fresh as the sun:While done is done for ever;Undone, undone.
And if that life is life,This is but a breath,The passage of a dreamAnd the shadow of death;But a vain shadowIf one considereth; 70Vanity of vanities,As the Preacher saith.