The Hostel, or Inn, XVI

Dear unto me, my native land, Is every field of thy wide realm; And dearer still the guardian hand That holds the way-directing helm; And now I love thee ten times more, When threatened is thy rocky shore: When waves on every side assail, And adverse winds and tides prevail. But why should I with sorrow’s flow Bewail my much loved country’s woe, And all her coming danger tell; Enough to me it is to know I love my native country well.