Oh that thy creed were sound! For thou dost soothe the heart, thou Church of Rome, By thy unwearied watch and varied round Of service, in thy Saviour’s holy home. I cannot walk the city’s sultry streets, But the wide porch invites to still retreats, Where passion’s thirst is calm’d, and care’s unthankful gloom.
There, on a foreign shore, The home-sick solitary finds a friend: Thoughts, prison’d long for lack of speech, outpour Their tears; and doubts in resignation end. I almost fainted from the long delay That tangles me within this languid bay, When comes a foe, my wounds with oil and wine to tend.