TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND

THE seed that wasteful autumn cast

To waver on its stormy blast,

Long o'er the wintry desert tost,

Its living germ has never lost.

Dropped by the weary tempest's wing,

It feels the kindling ray of spring,

And, starting from its dream of death,

Pours on the air its perfumed breath.

So, parted by the rolling flood,

The love that springs from common blood

Needs but a single sunlit hour

Of mingling smiles to bud and flower;

Unharmed its slumbering life has flown,

From shore to shore, from zone to zone,

Where summer's falling roses stain

The tepid waves of Pontchartrain,

Or where the lichen creeps below

Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow.

Though fiery sun and stiffening cold

May change the fair ancestral mould,

No winter chills, no summer drains

The life-blood drawn from English veins,

Still bearing wheresoe'er it flows

The love that with its fountain rose,

Unchanged by space, unwronged by time,

From age to age, from clime to clime!