Harvests of glorious Good about to reap,—
Dying to enter Life,—how can I weep?
62. ON JOHN ROBINSON. [(notes)]
I see thee, outcast from thy native shore,
Exile from England lov'd, to toil and die;
And ne'er didst thou behold our western sky;—
Yet in both lands what name is honor'd more
Than thine, O Robinson? We hence adore