And I reject them now!”
“Art thou the son of a noble line
In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine
Again on its shores to rest?
“Thine own is the choice to hail once more
The soil of thy father’s birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er,
Forgotten in foreign earth.”
“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise