To my valued Friends, the Editors of the Attic Chest
The exile, on a foreign shore,
His spirits to compose,
The novel region may explore;
And soothe awhile his woes.
But place him where his native land
May frequent strike his view,
The sight of its forbidden strand
Shall all his woes renew.
And near, and nearer as he draws
To scenes that touch his heart,
The worm which on his quiet gnaws
Inflicts a keener smart.
Impatient thus, do I survey
(A prisoner now at home)
The short, but yet impassive way
To taste and friendship’s dome.
More eager than if more remov’d,
At time’s slow foot I pine;
Yet time should here be unreproved:
The tardy foot is mine.
Oh may it soon resume its force,
And bear me to each friend!
To this kind circle its first course
Will naturally bend.