As if thy country’s air they blest;
As proudly do thy branches play,
Fanned by the breezes of the west.
The glad earth yields a soil as light—
The heaven above thee shines as bright.
But I, a pilgrim desolate,
Must mourn unheeded and alone;
Thou sharest with me the exile’s fate—
The exile’s sorrow is mine own!
Still glorious in thy reckless pride