That awaken'd the grief which in childhood I felt,
When, Europe! I mutter'd thy magical name.
And now that as pilgrim I visit thy shore,
I ask not where kings hold their pompous array;
But I fain would behold, and all humbly adore,
The wreath which thy brows, Châteaubriand! display.
My voice may well falter—unknown is my name,
But say, must my accents prove therefore in vain?
Beyond the Atlantic we boast of thy fame,
And repeat that thy footstep has traversed our plain.