My country! I am sore at heart for thee! br An in mine ear, like a storm-heralding breeze, br A voice against thee gathers warningly! br Lo, in what hands seem now thy destinies! br Hands grasping all, through party means, to seize br Some private benefit: and what should be br Thy Freedom's dawn, but gives ascendancy br To lawless Squatters, and the Hacks of these! br Woe waits a land, where men are wise and brave br For naught but self! When even the best aside br Are thrusting honesty to don the knave! br Where worth is trampled on by vulgar pride! br And where all beauty of the mind, decried, br Hangs dying o'er a Mammon-delved grave.