Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/180

96 To stretch my limbs upon -my native soil, With long vacation from unquiet toil; Resign my breath where first that breath I drew, And sink into the spot from whence I grew. But if my feeble age is doomed to try Unusual seasons and a foreign sky, To some more genial clime let me repair, And taste the healing balm of milder air; Near to the glowing sun's directer ray, And pitch my tent beneath the eye of day. Could not the winter in my veins suffice, Without the added rage of Scythian skies? The snow of time my vital heat exhaust, And hoary age, without Sarmatian frost? Yet storm and tempest are of ills the least Which this inhospitable land infest: Society than solitude is worse, And man to man is still the greatest curse.