Home-Sick

'Tis sweet to him, who all the weekThrough city-crowds must push his way,To stroll alone through fields and woods,And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,Sincere, affectionate and gay,One's own dear children feasting round,To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,Who having long been doom'd to roam,Throws off the bundle from his back,Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;This feel I hourly more and more:There's Healing only in thy wings,Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!