From England’s home, that e’en the home-sick heart
Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recrossed,
How large a space of fleeting life is lost:
Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed,
And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged,
But jocund in the year’s long sunshine roam,
That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home.
There, marking o’er his farm’s expanding ring
New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring,
The grey-haired swain, his grandchild sporting round,