Dear native Regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.

Thus, when the Sun, prepared for rest,
Hath gained the precincts of the West, 
Though his departing radiance fail
To illuminate the hollow Vale,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear Hills where first he rose.