FROM Somerset and Devon,
From Kent and Lincolnshire,
The younger sons came sailing
With hearts of steel and fire.
From leafy lane and valley,
Fair glebe and ancient wood,
The counties of old England
Poured forth their warmest blood.
Out of the gray-walled cities,
Away from the castled towns,
Corners of thatch and roses,
Heathery combes and downs;
With neither crown nor penny,
But an iron will they came;
Heirs of a great tradition
And a good old English name.
An empty silence met them,
On a nameless, savage shore;
But they called the wild, ‘New England.’
For the sake of the blood they bore.
‘Plymouth, Exeter, Bristol,
Boston, Windsor, Wells.’
Beloved names of England
Rang in their hearts like bells.
They named their rocky farmlands,
Their hamlets by the sea,
For the mother-towns that bred them
In racial loyalty.
‘Cambridge, Hartford, Gloucester,
Hampton, Norwich, Stowe,' —
The younger sons looked backward
And sealed their sonship so.
The old blood thrills in answer
As centuries go by,
To names that meant a challenge,
A signal, or a sigh.
Now over friendly waters
The old towns, each to each,
Call with their kinship in a name;
One race, one truth, one speech.