Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.