Broken and fitful, o’er the extatic song 175
Of the free lark, his summer clouds among.
I love thee, Land! and where such beauties shine,
Ask not, in niggard phrase, if thou art mine?
That here the eye is pleased—the foot is free—
And the pulse healthful, is enough for me! 180
Yet art thou wrong’d—the pen, that seal of fame
Whose magic impress gilds or blights a name,
Hath striken thee;[[2]]—a base and coward dart!
I fain would pluck the arrow from thy heart;