In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant at his door
Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head—
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears