208
X.
COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER,
ON THE DAY OF LANDING.
Dear Fellow-traveller! here we are once more.
The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound
Of Bells,—those Boys that in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleev'd shirts are playing,—and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore,—
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear Companion at my side.
