Why, wedded to the LORD, still yearns my heart

Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame?

Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came

Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art,

And shades of power, and those who bore a part

In the mad deeds that set the world in flame,

So fret my memory here, -- ah! is it blame? --

That from my eyes the tear is fain to start.

Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise;

'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race

Which in each brother's history reads its own: --

So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place

Be named man's tomb and splendid record-stone,

High hope, pride-stain'd, the course without the prize.