Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.

The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And its last rays kissed the forehe…

[Descriptio Britanniae] Campis late pansis collibusque amoeno situ locatis, praepollenti culturae aptis, montibus alternandis animalium pastibus maxime covenie…

The world's great day is growing late, Yet strange these fields that we have planted So long with crops of love and hate.