And O! farewell to distant Britain's shore,
Which I perhaps am doom'd to see no more;
Where Valour, Wisdom, Taste, and Virtue dwell,
Dear Land of Liberty, alas! farewell, —
Yet oft,  by wild Ambition tost,
The Soul's best season settles in a frost.
Yet even  desponding, late I knew,
That Friendship,  is rarely true.
For they, whom most I lov'd, whose kindness sav'd
My shatter'd Bark, when erst the tempest rav'd:
At home, e'en with the common herd could fly,
Gaze on the wounded Deer, and
Nor yet can Pride subdue my pangs severe,
But scorn itself evap'rates in a Tear.