Sweet upland, to whose walks with fond repair
Out of thy western slope I took my rise
Day after day, and on these feverish eyes
Met the moist fingers of the bathing air, —
If health, unearned of thee, I may not share,
Keep it, I pray thee, where my memory lies,
In thy green lanes, brown dells, and breezy skies,
Till I return, and find thee doubly fair.

Wait then my coming, on that lightsome land,
Health, and the Joy that out of nature springs,
And Freedom's air-blown locks; — but stay with me,
Friendship, frank entering with the cordial hand,
And Honour, and the Muse with growing wings,
And Love Domestic, smiling equably.