SUNDAY in Old England: In gray churches everywhere The calm of low responses, The sacred hush of prayer. Sunday in Old England; And summer winds that went O'er the pleasant fields of Sussex, The garden lands of Kent, Stole into dim church windows And passed the oaken door, And fluttered open prayer-books With the cannon's awful roar. Sunday in New England: Upon a mountain gray The wind-bent pines are swaying Like giants at their play; Across the barren lowlands, Where men find scanty food, The north wind brings its vigor To homesteads plain and rude. Ho, land of pine and granite! Ho, hardy northland breeze! Well have you trained the manhood That shook the Channel seas, When o'er those storied waters The iron war-bolts flew, And through Old England's churches The summer breezes blew; While in our other England Stirred one gaunt rocky steep, When rode her sons as victors, Lords of the lonely deep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY: THE EXECUTION; A SPORTING ANECDOTE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM VIA LUCIS by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN SUSPIRIA NOCTIS by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL AN IMPRESSION by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON FLIRTATION by FREDERICK STANLEY CAMP ABELARD TO HELOISE, SELECTION by JAMES CAWTHORN THE VOICE CALLING by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK |