Our country is where ever we are well off.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.
Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.