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RETURN TO NATIVE LAND.
Land of birth, whose outline dear,
O'er the morning mist doth peer,
Blessed hills whose wings outspread
Seemed to follow, as we fled,
When our parting glance was bent
On our country's battlement,
As with white sails set, we sped
Far away, o'er Ocean dread,
How our glad return ye greet
With a smile of welcome sweet!
He who fashioned earth and sea,
Made no hills more fair than ye.
Spires! that break the rolling tide
Of man's worldliness and pride,
