Dear Fellow-traveller! here we are once more. The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound Of Bells,—those Boys that in yon meadow-ground In white-sleev'd shirts are playing,—and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore,— All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear Companion at my side.