Furness Abbey

Ah, Sydney! — as we journeyed toward the main,
Visions of old Byzantium worked in thee;
Thy talk was of the gorgeous Osmanli: —
O how it rose like a bewildering strain
Of oriental music — paused again —
And changed unto the savage glens of pine
Which cradled thee! and yet the twilight power
Of English scenes, most felt at that still hour,
Some words of dearest rapture then could win,
As we walked forth by Leven's tranquil side.
Now, as thy hand is fondly clasped in mine
In this Cistercian chapter-house, the pride
Of native things awakes unblamed — the tide
Of English blood is rising fast within.