A Sonnet Upon the Curious Pull of Albion’s Physick
When age doth creep with gentle step and sigh, And health, once hale, begins its slow decline, What curious force impels the soul to fly From sunlit lands to Albion's drear design?
Though France hath wine and vestments fine arrayed, Its hotels grand, its clime a lover’s dream, The heart, betwixt discomfort and dismay'd, Still turns to where stout flows in somber stream.
Lo! The National Health, by Queen decreed, Doth stand—a bulwark 'gainst decay and strife. Though taxed and strained by strangers’ urgent need, It guards the native's pulse and waning life.
Yet must we ask—shall foreign feet, untried, Reap what the Briton laboured to provide?
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