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No lov'd familiar objects meet my ſight;
No long remember'd ſtreams or conſcious bowers,
'Wake the gay memory of youthful hours.
I fondly hop'd, content with learned eaſe,
To walk amidſt cotemporary trees;
In every ſcene ſome fav'rite ſpot to trace,
And meet in all ſome kind domeſtic ſace;
To ſtretch my limbs upon my native ſoil,
With long vacation from unquiet toil;
Reſign my breath where firſt that breath I drew,
And ſink into the ſpot from whence I grew.
But if my feeble age is doom'd to try
Unuſual ſeafons and a foreign ſky,
To ſome more genial clime let me repair,
And taſte the healing balm of milder air;
Near to the glowing ſun's directer ray,
And pitch my tent beneath the eye of day.
Could not the winter in my veins ſuffice,

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