They tell me that thy form is sadly changed—These fretful folk who, travelling from the East, Bide -in thy shores awhile and then return—Phot all thy best and palmiest days are spent: That all thy charms, thy gracious kindliness, Thy innocent mirth and simple pleasures li Deep buried in the past: that I shall find Rancour and vice and all the lust of gain Filling thy land with hateful sights and sounds, And that the very heart of thes is changed. They tell me—but what boots it what they tell? These giddy changelings never knew thy heart, Nor had the power to know. Enough that they Basked in the sunshine of the luxurious East When all the storms of war arose and fell Blasting our homes with suffering and death, And now like any spoiled and petted child That chafes at any little touch of pain, Because, returning home in time of peace, They still find certain comforts snatched away, They _weep in rage and vent their spleen on thee! But I, if they require me to lament, Will find my cause of grief, not in thy change, But in their doom that they are still the same, And for the rest, one prayer springs from my heart, 'That I, in these' few months I spend with thee, Remembering all the greatness of thy past, ing that it does not fade away, Moy have the eyes to seo thy greatness now: May hold my peace midst things I cannot know And humbly leam to servo thee how I can, Amo Parriam.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.