Still Are The Thoughts To Memory Dear.

And Better Had They Ne'er Been Born, Who Read To Doubt, Or Read To Scorn.

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

Where Shall The Lover Rest, Whom The Fates Sever From His True Maiden's Breast, Parted For Ever? Where, Through Groves Deep And High, Sounds The Far Billow, Where Early Violets Die, Under The Willow.

Oh, Poverty Parts Good Company.

In Man's Most Dark Extremity Oft Succour Dawns From Heaven.