Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home; 
Thou art my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam; 
A river-ark on the ocean brine, 
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; 
But now, proud world! I'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; 
To Grandeur with his wise grimace; 
To upstart Wealth's averted eye; 
To supple Office, low and high; 
To crowded halls, to court and street; 
To frozen hearts and hasting feet; 
To those who go, and those who come; 
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. 

I am going to my own hearth-stone, 
Bosomed to yon green hills alone,-- 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines, 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, 
At the sophist schools and the learned clan; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may meet?