 | Poems |  |
95
THE EXILE'S SORROW.
“Weep ye not for the dead, neither bewail him, but weep sore for him that
goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.”
Jeremiah.
Mourn! for the exile, mourn!
From the lov'd home of childhood he is wending;
Sad are his glances, and his steps, how slow!
Fond memory, to each lingering thought is lending
A tone of stronger love, of deeper woe.
Mourn for the exile! he has left the dwelling,
The old grey mansion that his fathers rear'd,
And wildly in his labouring breast is swelling
A last, mute farewell to that roof rever'd.
From the lov'd home of childhood he is wending;
Sad are his glances, and his steps, how slow!
Fond memory, to each lingering thought is lending
A tone of stronger love, of deeper woe.
Mourn for the exile! he has left the dwelling,
The old grey mansion that his fathers rear'd,
And wildly in his labouring breast is swelling
A last, mute farewell to that roof rever'd.
96
Mourn! for the exile, mourn!
Never again shall the bereav'd one listen
To the dear voices of his household band,
Well may the tears upon his pale cheek glisten—
Alone, he journeys to an alien land,
Alone! no parent and no friend to guide him,
No mother, with her gentle voice to cheer;
Too soon, alas! will the dark sea divide him
From home, friends, kindred, all that bless'd him here.
Never again shall the bereav'd one listen
To the dear voices of his household band,
Well may the tears upon his pale cheek glisten—
Alone, he journeys to an alien land,
Alone! no parent and no friend to guide him,
No mother, with her gentle voice to cheer;
Too soon, alas! will the dark sea divide him
From home, friends, kindred, all that bless'd him here.
Mourn! for the exile, mourn!
Within his bosom dwells a rooted sorrow,
Chasing each dream of happiness away;
His is a night of grief that knows no morrow,
A night, unbrighten'd by hope's gladdening ray.
Years may pass on, but his true heart will never
Cease its vain yearning for the well-known strand—
Stern fate may still oppose, but cannot sever
The ties that bind him to his native land.
Within his bosom dwells a rooted sorrow,
Chasing each dream of happiness away;
His is a night of grief that knows no morrow,
A night, unbrighten'd by hope's gladdening ray.
Years may pass on, but his true heart will never
Cease its vain yearning for the well-known strand—
Stern fate may still oppose, but cannot sever
The ties that bind him to his native land.
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