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 dommed 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!