That native land, whose countless novelties,
And forms of unimagined life, eclipse
The worn-out wonders of an Older World,
That, with its ghostly finger, only points
To things that were.
Oh! great and solemn Deep,
Profound magician of the musing thought,
Release my strain, that to the beauteous Isle
Which hath so long enchained me, thanks may flow,
Warm, though inadequate.