The Suppliant

Beyond the sea a land of heroes lies,
Of fairy heaths and rivers, mountains steep,
O'ergrown with vine — her memory I shall keep
Most dear, her heritage most dearly prize.
But lo, a lad, I left her, and mine eyes
Fell on the sea-girt mistress of the deep,
What time my boy's heart heard as in a sleep
The choral walls of rhythmic beauty rise.
O lyric England, thee I call mine own;
With lyre and lute and wreath I come to thee;
The realm is thine of song and of the sea,
And thy mouth's speech is heard from zone to zone:
Turn not in scorn thine ivied brow from me,
Who am a suppliant kneeling at thy throne!