Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

My native land, good night!