And where are they? and where art thou,
My Country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—
The heroic bosom beats no more![CZ]
And must thy Lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
6.
'T is something, in the dearth of Fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,