Must fall that dew of heavenly birth.
What marvel, then, my native land,
That heaves its breast to kiss high Heaven,
Hath fill’d my heart and nerved my hand,
And fresher inspiration given?
Then if my heart a spell hath wove
More potent than of erst it threw,
And ye have wept its tale of love,
With rifer tears than once it drew,
Think not thou mayest the song reward