THE SWALLOW. 153 



" Thrice happy wand'rer ! fain would I, 

 Like thee, from ruder climates fly, 



That seat of rest to share; 

 Oppress'd with tumult, sick with wrongs, 

 How oft my fainting spirit longs 



To lay its sorrows there! 



" Oh ! ever on that holy ground 



The cov'ring cherub Peace is found, 



With brooding wings serene ; 

 And Charity's seraphic glow, 

 And gleams of glory that foreshow 



A higher, brighter scene. 



" For even that refuge but bestows 

 A transient though a sweet repose. 



For one short hour allow'd ; — 

 Then, upwards we shall take our flight 

 To hail a spring without a blight, 



A heaven without a cloud !" 



