The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
         The wantonest singing birds
     Are lips—and all thy melody
         Of lip-begotten words—


     Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
         Then desolately fall,
     O! God! on my funereal mind
         Like starlight on a pall—


     Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
         And sleep to dream till day
     Of truth that gold can never buy—
         Of the trifles that it may.

This poem is in the public domain. 

God bless our native land,
    Land of the newly free,
 Oh may she ever stand
    For truth and liberty.
 God bless our native land,
    Where sleep our kindred dead,
 Let peace at thy command
    Above their graves be shed.
 God help our native land,
    Bring surcease to her strife,
 And shower from thy hand
    A more abundant life.
 God bless our native land,
    Her homes and children bless,
 Oh may she ever stand
    For truth and righteousness.

This poem is in the public domain.

If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.  There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
   Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
   Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
     Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
     In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

This poem is in the public domain.