As one, who gath'ring flowers in a dream,
Hath found a vanished passion all in bloom,
And wild sweet odors lifting in the gloom
Of olden time, but casts it on a stream,
To mar the silver moon's reflectant beam,
And laugh at circles sweeping on to doom,
In dusky marges, shining in her brume,
Hath England found thee. Thus her silly deem!
Ah! Shame that she, whose head is vaunted so,
Hath vision narrowed to a needle's eye.
And only far from home, doth England know
That she has doomed another son to die.
But fair Columbia brings her wreath of woe,
Sweet Rhine, a tear, and lyric France a sigh.