The Lonely Isle A South-Sea Island Tale, In Three Cantos. By William Glen |
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| I. |
| II. |
THE FLOWER O' THE FIELD. |
 | The Lonely Isle |  |
THE FLOWER O' THE FIELD.
The sun had na' peep'd frae behint the dark billow,
The slow-sinking moon half illumin'd the scene,
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane,
Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
An' gay were the visions my fancy reveal'd;
But my eyes filled wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
An' thought on Eliza, the Flower of the Field.
The slow-sinking moon half illumin'd the scene,
As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane,
Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
An' gay were the visions my fancy reveal'd;
But my eyes filled wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
An' thought on Eliza, the Flower of the Field.
Tho' far frae my hame, in a tropical wild wood,
Yet the “fields o' my fore-fathers rose on my view,”
An' I wept when I thought on the days o' my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
Tho' I knew it not then, it was love I conceal'd.
O! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moon-beams are dwelling,
Yet as pure an' as fair is the Flower o' the Field.
Yet the “fields o' my fore-fathers rose on my view,”
An' I wept when I thought on the days o' my childhood,
An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
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Tho' I knew it not then, it was love I conceal'd.
O! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moon-beams are dwelling,
Yet as pure an' as fair is the Flower o' the Field.
Now far in the east, the sun slowly rising,
Brightly gilded the top o' the tall Cabbage-tree,
And sweet was the scene, such wild beauties comprising,
As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee;
But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd—
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for Eliza, the Flower o' the Field.
Brightly gilded the top o' the tall Cabbage-tree,
And sweet was the scene, such wild beauties comprising,
As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee;
But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd—
I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
And wept for Eliza, the Flower o' the Field.
The Orange was bath'd in the dews o' the morning,
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering Vine,
White were the blossoms the Lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the Apple that grew on the Pine.
Were I as free as an Indian Chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes true pleasure might yield;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' I am a slave to the Flower o' the Field.
An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering Vine,
White were the blossoms the Lime-tree adorning,
An' brown was the Apple that grew on the Pine.
Were I as free as an Indian Chieftain,
Sic beautiful scenes true pleasure might yield;
But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
An' I am a slave to the Flower o' the Field.
When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before,
O! then I'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the Lass I adore.
Here me, ye Angels who watch o'er my Maiden,
(Like ane o' yoursels is the lassie ye shield)
Pure as was Love in the Garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my love for the Flower o' the Field.
An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before,
O! then I'll revisit the land of my fathers,
An' clasp to this bosom the Lass I adore.
Here me, ye Angels who watch o'er my Maiden,
(Like ane o' yoursels is the lassie ye shield)
Pure as was Love in the Garden o' Eden,
Sae pure is my love for the Flower o' the Field.
| The Lonely Isle | |