My Native Land

O, not the clear and sunny wave
That rolls around the Ægean isles;
Nor all that ancient beauty gave
Of fondest dallyings and smiles;
Nor all the spirit-stirring notes
That come from high Apollo's shrine,
When the full hymn and song divine
Round Delphi's golden temple floats;—
O, not the hills that bear the vine,
And far their breathing odors throw;
Not the bright skies, whose evening twine
Outvies, in tints, the breded bow;
Not all the luxury of shade
Beneath the spreading chestnut-tree;
Not all the flowers that never fade,
Rude land of storms! can equal thee.
In thee my infant being drew
The first reviving breath of air;
My early years in gladness flew,
Light as a dream of summer there:
Still round thy rocks my spirit clings,—
It cannot tear itself away;
And if it had an eagle's wings,
There it would ever hovering play;
For oh! there is no spot of earth
Dear as the land that gave us birth.
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