WONDERS, ’tis true, I leave behind,
And, what is rarer, friends so kind.
To my own country I am gone
From Grecian Slave and Amazon,
Nor longer can delight my eyes
In painture’s proudest galleries,
But Nature’s are before me stil,
And I may wander at my will
Mid avenues where ancient trees
Discourse about the coming breeze
And tremble for the rooks above,
And chide the unreturning dove;
Then, showing at their feet the moss,
Invite me to forget my loss,
Or, if unwilling to forget,
To dream that I am with you yet.