But one poor bush that decks our cottage-mound,
My mother's constant care,
Than all these palms with grace and beauty crowned,
Were to my eye more fair.
Here brightly blooming flowers of countless dyes
Wide gardens gayly paint;
Sadly I view them with unjoying eyes,
Till with their perfume faint.
Oh, give me but for these the pale wild rose
Found once in many a day
Among our downs, in some deep fold hid close,
Where childhood loved to stray.
Cease, cease thy mournful plaint, O nightingale,
Singing in yonder tree!
Not half so dear thy song as the familiar wail
Of my own native sea.