Written At Schwytz

'Twas not satiety—disgust—
  That led a wanderer forth to roam,
  To look for hearts of firmer trust,
  Or brighter eyes—thus far from home;
  'Twas not for honour's prouder beat,
  'Twas not for morals' chaster strain,
  Nor law, that sways from holier seat,
  With steadier hand or lighter rein;
  Oh! not for these, dear English land,
  He left thy billow-beaten shore;
  And absence to that rocky strand
  But binds his heart-strings more and more.
 
  But art Thou one to crouch thy back
  Compelled beneath a despot's frown,
  Where threat the impaler and the rack
  Beside the crosier and the crown;
  If nourished high with ancient lore
  Thy generous heart be sunk to groan,
  And but in dreams to ponder o'er
  The freedom Thou wouldst die to own;
  Then, pensive traveller! rest thee here;
  Let happier thoughts thy soul employ;
  Rest by these hearths to freemen dear,
  And give thy heart one pause of joy.