Home-Sick. Written in Germany

'Tis sweet to him who all the week

        Through 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 doomed 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!