Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compar’d with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-wing’d arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,