'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!