O native ALBION, when to thee
Shall I return to part no more?
Far from this pale, discolour'd sea,
That sleeps upon the reedy shore,
When shall I plow thy azure tides,
And, as thy fleece-white hills aspire,
Bless the fair shade that on their sides
Imbow'rs the village and the sacred spire,
While the green hedge, below, the golden slope divides?