Then, without nurture or repose, she hastes
Her journey homeward over rocks and wastes;
Till, as her steps a hill familiar gain,
Bursts on her filling eyes her native plain.
She pants, expands her arms, 'Ah, peaceful scene!'
Exclaiming: 'Ah, dear valley, lovely green,
Still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still,
All your white cottages, the little mill;
Its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads,
The plat where oft I danced to piping reeds.