'Twas not satiety—disgust—
That led a wanderer forth to roam,
To look for hearts of firmer trust,
Or brighter eyes—thus far from home;
'Twas not for honour's prouder beat,
'Twas not for morals' chaster strain,
Nor law, that sways from holier seat,
With steadier hand or lighter rein;
Oh! not for these, dear English land,
He left thy billow-beaten shore;
And absence to that rocky strand
But binds his heart-strings more and more.

But art Thou one to crouch thy back
Compelled beneath a despot's frown,
Where threat the impaler and the rack
Beside the crosier and the crown;
If nourished high with ancient lore
Thy generous heart be sunk to groan,
And but in dreams to ponder o'er
The freedom Thou wouldst die to own;
Then, pensive traveller! rest thee here;
Let happier thoughts thy soul employ;
Rest by these hearths to freemen dear,
And give thy heart one pause of joy.