And as a child, who, wandered from his home,
Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot,
Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam,
But, in a blessed, and abiding lot,
Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes,
So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot,
This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wise
Than erring nature would permit to clay,
Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies,
Will yet pursue me to the realms of day;