Robert Jackson MacGeorge (1808–1884)

STRANGE earth we sprinkle on the exile’s clay,

Mingled with flowers his childhood never knew;

Far sleeps he from that mountain-top so blue,

Shadowing the scene of his young boyhood’s play.

But o’er his lonely transatlantic bed

The ancient words of hopeful love are spoken;

The solitude of these old pines is broken

With the same prayers once o’er his father said.

O precious Liturgy! that thus canst bring

Such sweet associations to the soul,

That though between us and our homes seas roll,

We oft in thee forget our wandering,

And in a holy day-dream tread once more

The fresh green valleys of our native shore.