Most courteously, this evening, I'll present Before this audience, a sentiment-- At least a hint on nationality, A love, or rather a partiality For birthplace, country, and the people, where Our lungs at first inhaled the vital air. One might as well my thoughts exterminate-- My place in pedigree annihilate, Or the warm pulse of life eradicate, As to efface, or to remove from me The sentiment of Nationality. It, of my nature, constitutes a part-- Unites with all the life-blood of my heart; And if no trait, or portion of my spirit, 'Tis something I eternally inherit. Not all the charms surrounding scenes impart, Can chase the high-toned feelings from my heart; For oft--full oft, so tenderly they yearn, A kindling impulse prompts a fond return Unto the land of my nativity-- My native home--my native scenery. But where--O, where the land so choice--so dear? Which is the nation I so much revere? I do not languish for the lakes and rills, The rugged heights of Europe's Alpine hills, The verdant vales which smilingly repose 'Neath their bold summits of eternal snows; Nor would I boast a proud nativity On the luxuriant plains of Italy, With glowing, sunny landscapes, rich and fair, Tall city spires, and grand cathedrals there; Where the salubrious climate's genial heat Gives to the pulse a soft and ardent beat; Where nature, with accelerated force, With less of time, completes her wonted course. Nor yet in Germany, where laws are made To fit like tenons for the joiner's trade-- Where every code of civil policy, Mocks the precision of geometry. Where ease and luxury are smiling 'round, And merry glee and cheerfulness abound; Where summer vineyards and the harvest field To man and beast a joyous plenty yield. Not Britain, with its mountains, hills and dales, Including England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales; With inland products, and ship-crested coast-- Comprising much that wealth and honor boast; With far-famed cities, towns and villas too, Where genius flourished and where valor grew; With all varieties of grade and sphere, Of "Home, sweet home," most lovely and most dear, The honored home of noble thousands, where Are executed with judicious care, Those legal powers, created to bestow Protection's banner on the high and low; And where religious toleration, now, Above all elsewhere lifts its manly brow. Not Sweden, Denmark, Norway, nor in France, Where revolution's onward strides advance, And then recede, as tides that ebb and flow-- As moons that waxing, waning, onward go; While soft refinement, with its graceful air, Displays a master-stroke of polish there; Where vinous foliage--native fruits and flowers, Vie with exotics, in luxuriant bowers.