There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest:
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heav’n upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store