“O, if we could but see the shape of our dear mother England, as poets are wont
to give a personal form to what they please, how would she appear, think ye, but in
a mourning weed, with ashes upon her head, and tears abundantly flowing from her
eyes, to behold so many of her children exposed at once, and thrust from things of
direst necessity * * * * * * * * and to avoid insufferable grievances at home, enforced
by heaps to forsake their native country.”