In craggy pride, and prop Columbia's skies,
Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste,
Roll from your shores and tempt the watery waste—
Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows,
Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose,
Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee,
Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see.
Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land—
Unseen the parting tear, the loved one's waving hand.
Thus they depart—if those who walk the main,