Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.

Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.

Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.