How melancholy, then, if morn restore—
(Less welcome than the night's forgetful gloom)
Old England's blue hills to our sight again,
When we, our thoughts seemed weaning from her sky,—
That pang which wakes the almost silenced pain!
Thus, when the sick man lies, resigned to die,
A well-loved voice, a well-remembered strain,
Lets Time break harshly in upon Eternity.
When, after his long day, consumed in toil,
'Neath the scarce welcome shade of unknown trees,