SONNET.
Happy is he, who, like the Ithacan sage
Or the brave hero of the golden fleece,
Having far travelled, finds his troubles cease,
Amidst his own, in ripe-experienced age.
When shall I turn again to life's first page?
From the world's tumult when obtain release?
And greet the village and the home of Peace
Where sweet affections quell each passion's rage?
Dearer to me that home my grandsires built,
Than Roman palaces with pillars brave,
Dearer those roofs of slate than marble gilt,
Dearer my Loire than Tiber's sacred wave,
Dearer my Lyré than the Palatine,
And oh how dear, thou climate Angevine!
B
