Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
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THE WANDERER. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
228
THE WANDERER.
Where roam the feet of the Distant One—the Wanderer far away?
Doth a tropic forest shelter him from the blaze of a tropic day?
Doth he rest 'mong the glorious golden flowers of an Indian valley lone?
Doth he drink of the Arab's desert fount? O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Doth a tropic forest shelter him from the blaze of a tropic day?
Doth he rest 'mong the glorious golden flowers of an Indian valley lone?
Doth he drink of the Arab's desert fount? O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
He went forth from his father's house while Hope was burning in his heart—
He went forth in joy while exultingly from his lips a song did part.
Hath the Hope decay'd? Hath the Brightness fled?
Hath the spirit sorrow known?
Or rejoices he in the sunlight still?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
He went forth in joy while exultingly from his lips a song did part.
Hath the Hope decay'd? Hath the Brightness fled?
Hath the spirit sorrow known?
Or rejoices he in the sunlight still?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Hath he drunk the spirit-draught of Love from the eye of an Indian maid?
Doth he linger now with a dear-loved one in an Eastern forest's shade?
Hath he then forgot his infant dreams and his native mountains lone,
For the deep dark glance of a maiden's eye?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Doth he linger now with a dear-loved one in an Eastern forest's shade?
Hath he then forgot his infant dreams and his native mountains lone,
For the deep dark glance of a maiden's eye?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
229
Back to the streams of his youthhood's land, why hath not the Wanderer come,
To rejoice in his mother's smile again, and to sit in his father's home?
Hath his cheek grown pale? Hath his eye grown dim? Doth he sleep beneath the stone?
Is his noble heart all mouldering now?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
To rejoice in his mother's smile again, and to sit in his father's home?
Hath his cheek grown pale? Hath his eye grown dim? Doth he sleep beneath the stone?
Is his noble heart all mouldering now?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
O! sings he the songs of another land, or remembers he yet his own?
Hath the veil of dim Forgetfulness on his once-warm heart been thrown?
Why tarries he where a sister's eye hath never o'er him shone?—
Where a brother's voice he hath never heard?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Hath the veil of dim Forgetfulness on his once-warm heart been thrown?
Why tarries he where a sister's eye hath never o'er him shone?—
Where a brother's voice he hath never heard?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Pure Stars! as ye shine with unsleeping eye, can ye tell us ought of him?
Bright Sun! doth he watch in a distant land your evening light grow dim?
Strong Winds! have ye fann'd his cheek as o'er the earth ye have hurried on?
Sun, Winds, and Stars! can ye answer us?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
Bright Sun! doth he watch in a distant land your evening light grow dim?
Strong Winds! have ye fann'd his cheek as o'er the earth ye have hurried on?
Sun, Winds, and Stars! can ye answer us?—O! where hath the Wanderer gone?
The sound of his foot shall be heard no more in his mourning Father's hall—
His sweet young voice on his Mother's ear again shall never fall:
His steed untired in the stable stands, and his hound may hunt alone;
For the woful voice of the Desolate calls, “O! where hath the Wanderer gone?”
His sweet young voice on his Mother's ear again shall never fall:
230
For the woful voice of the Desolate calls, “O! where hath the Wanderer gone?”
In a coral cave of the dark green sea, the Wanderer's bed is made—
'Mong the mysteries old of the mighty deep, the waves his couch have spread;
And the tempest sweeps o'er his watery grave with a drear and sullen moan,
And asks, with its wildly wailing voice, “O! where hath the Wanderer gone?”
'Mong the mysteries old of the mighty deep, the waves his couch have spread;
And the tempest sweeps o'er his watery grave with a drear and sullen moan,
And asks, with its wildly wailing voice, “O! where hath the Wanderer gone?”
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |