On Spartan hills, or to some forest dell
Of snowy Hæmus; while, I know it well,
That far so ever as I seem to roam,
My spirit always will return to home,
Predestined to no inglorious themes—
My native fields, and woods, and sparkling streams,
And the race no less that those vales frequent,
Simple husbandmen, wholly innocent
Of ill, though shrewd, keen to resent a wrong;
For whom I meditate my pastoral song.