Henry Alford

Sonnet V. "My own dear country, thy remembrance comes"

My own dear country, thy remembrance comes Like softly--flowing music on my heart; With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes, And cots rose--bowered, bosomed in dells apart: The merry pealings of our village bells Gush ever and anon upon mine ear; And is there not a far--off sound that tells Of many--voicèd laughter shrill and clear? Oh! were I now with thee, to sit and play Under the hawthorn on the slope o' th' hill, As I was wont to do; or pluck all day The cowslip and the flaunting daffodil, Till shepherds whistled homeward, and the west Folded the large sun in her crimson breast!