The world is all before me; but I ask | And for the remnant which may be Of Nature that with which she will comply It is but in her summer's sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask, to come till I look again on thee. feelings farther. Nor shall I conceal And never gaze on it with apathy. Creations of the mind?—The mind And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now The heroic bosom beats no more! I'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, |