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Metrical essays

on subjects of history and imagination. By Charles Swain
 
 

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64

LAST WORDS OF AN EXILE.

“The look sincere, and proffer'd hand,
May hide a callous heart.”
W. Jerdan.

I

My path is o'er the gloomy sea—
My home—is yet to find—
Yet grieve I not for loss of thee,
Thou land I leave behind:
Thy breath has brought but misery
A dark and aching mind.

II

Reckless I quit thee, beauteous Isle,
Where love my heart first knew;
Where friendship spoke with ready smile,
And hopes like roses grew:
I've learnt how deep these names beguile,
Fleeting as morning dew.

65

III

I loved—how truly and how well,
This wither'd form will show;
I loved—oh! lips may never tell
The soul's impassion'd flow;
I loved—now love's a broken spell,
Its vain deceits I know.

IV

Friends!—they fled fast when sorrow came;
They're false, though fair they seem;—
O! trust not thou to friendship's name,
It's truth is but a dream;
Its kind warmth but a flick'ring flame,
A transitory beam!

V

Yet—yet 'tis sad to say “we part”—
From friendship's dream to wake;
And we have known fate's keenest dart,
When hope and love forsake;
But God, who sees the mourner's heart,
Can heal—or bid it break!