[anon.], "Our Native Land." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 318-319
               
            
         
      
      
         
             318 
            
               Our Native Land
            
             By Delta
            
            
               Our Native Land[Note to "Our Native Land":] A poem identical to this one appears in the 1852
                        Poetical Works by 
                        
                           David Macbeth Moir
                        
                     . [Poetess Archive Editor.]
               
            
            
               Moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.
            
            
            
               The halo round the Seraph's head
               Too purified for thing of Earth,
               Is not more beautifully bright
               Than that celestial zone oflight,
               Which Nature's magic hand haath shed
               Around the land which gave us birth.
            
            
            
               Oh! — be that country beautified
               With woods that wave, and streams that glide,
               Where bounteous air and earth unfold
               The gales of health, and crops of gold;
               Let flowers and fields be ever fair;
               Let fragrance load the languid air;
               Be vines in every valley there;
               And olives on each mountain side; — 
               Or — let it be a wilderness
               Where heaven and earth oppose in gloom;
                319 
               Where the low sun all faintly glows
               O'er regions of perennial snows;
               Still 'tis the country not the less
               Of him, who sows what ne'er may bless
               His labours with autumnal bloom!
            
            
            
               Yes! partial clans, in every clime,
               Since first commenced the march of Time,
               Where'er they rest — there'er they roam — 
               All unforgot, 
               Have still a spot
            
            
            
               Which Memory loves, and heart calls — home!
               From where Antarctic oceans roar
               Round Patadonia's mountain shore;
               To where grim Hecla's cone aspires,
               With sides of snow, and throat of fires!