Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd.

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine!

The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land.