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Pierce we the shade, — what meets the sight ? 
Idolatry’s polluted shrine. 
Then hail, dear England ! land of light! 
Where heaven-revealed truth doth shine. 
Give me. fair land, thy healthful sales. 
With sweet but simple perfume fraught; 
Give me thy forests, mountains, dales. 
What thoush thev do not cumber thought 
With such oppressive grandeur, —still 
Thev ’re grand and fair enough for me: 
There’s health upon thy breezy hill,— 
There’s shelter ’neatli thy greenwood tree. 
The cots, — where dwell thy peasant sons, 
Each with its garden-plot so gay; 
The dingle, where the mill-stream runs, 
The green, where children meet to play. 
The village church, but barely scann’d, 
Just peeping forth from tufted trees; 
Oh ! what in India’s gorgeous land 
May be compared with scenes like these? 
