Byron.    

	Beloved country! banish’d from thy shore,
	A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
	The exil’d spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
	Heavenward the bright perfections I adore direct.

Longfellow.    

	An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
	A wanderer, weary of the way;—
	A stranger, without love’s sweet claim
	On any heart, go where I may!

Mrs. Osgood.    

	“Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!” he cried.
	“Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
	But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
	Of its own thirst to see again thy shore.”

Byron.    

	Even now, as, wandering upon Erie’s shore,
	I hear Niagara’s distant cataract roar,
	I sigh for England—oh! these weary feet
	Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.

Moore.    

	There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin;
	The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill!
	For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing,
	To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Campbell.    

	Home, kindred, friends, and country—these
	Are ties with which we never part;
	From clime to clime, o’er land and seas,
	We bear them with us in our heart:
	But, oh! ’t is hard to feel resign’d,
	When these must all be left behind!

J. Montgomery.    

Cicero.    

	Oh! when shall I visit the land of my birth,
	The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
	When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
	Our forests, our fountains,
	Our hamlets, our mountains,
	With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
	Oh! when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
	In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?

Montgomery.    

	But me, not destined such delights to share,
	My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
	Impell’d, with steps unceasing, to pursue
	Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view
	That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
	Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
	My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
	And find no spot of all the world my own.

Goldsmith.