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322 SONNETS. XXVIII. HOME-SICKNESS. HERE let me sit upon this shaded stile, Where none but rustic sights can meet mine eye, And rural sounds alone may murmur by, That dreams of thee, sweet Surry, for awhile The view of cheated Fancy may beguile: Yon clouds, high-pil'd amid the western sky, Thy hills of varied aspect shall supply, Their golden rifts, thy streams, that brightly smile. As the Swiss Exile weeps, if chance he hear The melting wildness of his native strain, So I, condemn'd the livelong day to wear On Cam's dull margin, and unvaried plain, If aught more rural meet mine eye, or ear, O Surry, pant to climb thy hills again!
