At ev’ry varied scene my heart would thrill,
For, storm or sunshine, ’twas my Country still,
And now, in riper years, as I behold
Each passing hour some fairer charm unfold,
In ev’ry thought, in ev’ry wish I own,
In ev’ry prayer I breathe to Heaven’s high throne,
My Country’s welfare blends—and could my hand
Bestow one floweret on my native land,
Could I but light one Beacon fire, to guide
The steps of those who yet may be her pride,