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The world is all before me; but I ask | And for the remnant which may be Of Nature that with which she will

comply

It is but in her summer's sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask,

to come

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till I look again on thee.

feelings farther. Nor shall I conceal

And never gaze on it with apathy.
She was my early friend, and now
shall be
My sister

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Creations of the mind?—The mind And where are they? and where art

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thou,

My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

I'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered

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