[From Poems; by Rev Robert Brown, 1826]

MY NATIVE LAND.

ISLAND of mountains steep and bare !
Bleak is thy climate, and thy soil
But ill repays the planter's care,
But ill rewards the reaper's toil
No costly harvests wave on thee,
On thee no forests wide expand;
Yet, Mona, thou hast charms for me,
For art not thou my native land?

No rivers deep and broad hast thou,
Like those which flow through British ground;
Thine are but streams, that, from the brow
Of lofty mountains, swiftly bound
Through narrow channels to the sea,
Which bursts upon thy murmuring strand;
Yet, Mona, thou hast charms for me,
For art not thou my native land ?

No minstrel of immortal fame
Has yet among thy sons been found,
Nor of thy country can we name
A single portion classic ground
No harp has sounded yet in thee,
Struck by a Gray's or Milton's hand ;
Yet, Mona, thou bast charms for me,
For art not thou my native land ?

Rough is thy coast, and loud the roar
Around thy rocks of ocean's wave;
The tide that rolls upon thy shore
Has often proved the seaman's grave.
But yet my bosom clings to thee ;
Yes! it is nature's own demand,
Island! that thou be dear to me,
For art not thou my native land ?

Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor HTML Transcription © F.Coakley , 2009