Successful Recitations | Page 4

throne.
When from the iron clash and stormy stress Which mark His wondrous
way, Shines forth all haloed round with holiness The rose of perfect
day.

ENGLAND.
BY ELIZA COOK.
My heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "Merrie Isle," I love
each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile; I'm happy when
my steps are free upon the sunny glade, I'm glad and proud amid the
crowd that throng its mart of trade; I gaze upon our open port, where
Commerce mounts her throne, Where every flag that comes 'ere now
has lower'd to our own. 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!

A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA
GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND,
BY WILLIAM COX BENNET.
A thousand leagues below the line, 'neath southern stars and skies, 'Mid
alien seas, a land that's ours, our own new England lies; From north to
south, six thousand miles heave white with ocean foam, Between the
dear old land we've left and this our new-found home; Yet what though
ocean stretch between--though here this hour we stand! Our hearts,
thank God! are English still; God bless the dear old land! "To
England!" men, a bumper brim; up, brothers, glass in hand! "England!"
I give you "England!" boys; "God bless the dear old land!"
O what a greatness she makes ours? her past is all our own, And such a
past as she can boast, and brothers, she alone; Her mighty ones the
night of time triumphant shining through, Of them our sons shall
proudly say, "They were our fathers too;" For us her living glory shines
that has through ages shone; Let's match it with a kindred blaze,
through ages to live on; Thank God! her great free tongue is ours; up
brothers, glass in hand! Here's "England," freedom's boast and ours;
"God bless the dear old land!"
For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such priceless worth
As make the races from her sprung the freemen of the earth; Free faith,
free thought, free speech, free laws, she won through bitter strife, That
we might breathe unfetter'd air and live unshackled life; Her freedom

boys, thank God! is ours, and little need she fear, That we'll allow a
right she won to die or wither here; Free-born, to her who made us free,
up brothers glass in hand! "Hope of the free," here's "England!" boys,
"God bless the dear old land!"
They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots lour and threat; What
matters that? her mighty arm can smite and conquer yet; Let Europe's
tyrants all combine, she'll meet them with a smile; Hers are Trafalgar's
broadsides still--the hearts that won the Nile: We are but young; we're
growing fast; but with what loving pride, In danger's hour, to front the
storm, we'll range us at her side; We'll pay the debt we owe her then; up
brothers glass in hand! "May God confound her enemies! God bless the
dear old land!"

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
BY ELIZA COOK.
The Sailor boasts his