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John Bartlett (1820–1905). Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. 1919.

Feliia Dorothea (Browne) Hemans 1793-1835 John Bartlett

    The stately homes of England,—
  How beautiful they stand,
Amid their tall ancestral trees,
  O’er all the pleasant land!
          The Homes of England.
    The breaking waves dashed high
  On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
  Their giant branches tossed.
          Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
    What sought they thus afar?
  Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
  They sought a faith’s pure shrine.
          Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
    Ay, call it holy ground,
  The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found,—
  Freedom to worship God.
          Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
    Through the laburnum’s dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.
          The Palm-Tree.
    They grew in beauty side by side,
  They filled one home with glee:
Their graves are severed far and wide
  By mount and stream and sea.
          The Graves of a Household.
    Alas for love, if thou wert all,
  And naught beyond, O Earth!
          The Graves of a Household.
    The boy stood on the burning deck,
  Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
  Shone round him o’er the dead.
          Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
      And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
          The Hour of Death.
    Come to the sunset tree!
  The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
  And the reaper’s work is done.
          Tyrolese Evening Song.
    In the busy haunts of men.
          Tale of the Secret Tribunal. Part i.
    Calm on the bosom of thy God,
  Fair spirit, rest thee now!
          Siege of Valencia. Scene ix.
    Oh, call my brother back to me!
  I cannot play alone:
The summer comes with flower and bee,—
  Where is my brother gone?
          The Child’s First Grief.
    I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung his tassels forth.
          The Voice of Spring.
    I had a hat. It was not all a hat,—
Part of the brim was gone:
Yet still I wore it on.
          Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory.