I bow myself before the tombs,
In tears with grief oppress’d.
What is thy magic? what may be
The ineffable enchantment found,
O, country! O, sweet name, in thee?
Ever so dear to man the sound!
The sunburnt African will sigh
For his parch’d sands and burning sky,
Perchance afar, and round the plains
However blooming he disdains.