'Tis sweet to him who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower, Sincere, affectionate and gay, One's own dear children feasting round, To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

May 6, 1799.