O for that sweet, untroubled rest,
That poets oft have sung!—
The babe upon its mother’s breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain—
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother’s breast—
Sweet Nature’s garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest—
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e’en—
O for the pasture, fields, and fen,
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
’Twas pleasure e’en to weep;
’Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?