What sense of loneliness comes o'er the soul,
What sinking of the spirits, when one leaves
The kindly-courteous country, and perceives
The first sure indications of his goal,
The densely peopled city; when the roll
Of drums is heard in dry and dusty streets,
What time the huge cathedral bell repeats
The evening hour, with solemn-sounding toll!
Where 'mong the crowds that pour in at the gate,
There's none we care for, none for us who care!
How different from the scenes we left of late,
Where every peasant had a friendly air,
And where the trees, to touch us, wont to extend
Their branches out, like some familiar friend!