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To mercy's work beneath thine Indian skies,
And in the bowels of thine own dark mines,
And where the thunder of the loom is fed
By childhood's misery, and where the moan
Of him, who fain would labor if he might,
Swells into madness for his famished babes;
Bow down thy coronet and search for them,
Healing their ailments with an angel's zeal,
Till all, who own thy sceptre's sway, be known
By the free smile upon their open brow,
And on their fervent lip a Christian's praise.

And now, farewell, Old England.
                                               I should grieve
Much at the thought to see thy face no more,
But that my beckoning home doth seem so near
In vista o'er the wave, that its warm breath
Quickeneth my spirit to a dream of joy.

Peace be within thy walls, Ancestral Clime!
And in thy palaces, and on thy towers,
Prosperity. And may no war-cloud rise
'Tween thee and the young country of my birth,
That Saxon vine thou plantedst in the wild
Where red men roamed. Oh! lift no sword again,
Mother and Daughter!
                              Shed no more the blood
That from one kindred fountain fills your veins.
Show the poor heathen, in earth's darkest place,