As the breeze that swept o’er her soul grew strong.
“They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding sea?
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? In silence let me die,
In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure, deep sapphire sky:
How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth—
Its tones of summer’s breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?
“Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake,
And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake!
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,