 | [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde |  |
106
FRAGMENT IV
'Tis many moons ago—a long, long time,
Since first upon this shore a white man trod;
From the great waters to the mountain clime,
This was our home—'twas giv'n us by the GOD
That gave you yours. Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too! for they were MEN—
They fought to guard it—for their hearts were brave—
And long they fought!—We were a people then!
This was our country—it is now our GRAVE—
Would I had never lived—or died this land to save!
Since first upon this shore a white man trod;
From the great waters to the mountain clime,
This was our home—'twas giv'n us by the GOD
That gave you yours. Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too! for they were MEN—
They fought to guard it—for their hearts were brave—
And long they fought!—We were a people then!
This was our country—it is now our GRAVE—
Would I had never lived—or died this land to save!
When first ye came, your numbers were but few,
Our nation many as the leaves or sand;
Hungry and tired ye were—we pitied you—
We called you brothers—took you by the hand;
But soon we found ye came to spoil the land:
We quarrelled—and your countrymen we slew,
Till one alone of all, remained behind—
Among the false he only had been true—
And much we loved this man of single mind,
And ever while he lived to him were kind.
Our nation many as the leaves or sand;
Hungry and tired ye were—we pitied you—
We called you brothers—took you by the hand;
But soon we found ye came to spoil the land:
We quarrelled—and your countrymen we slew,
Till one alone of all, remained behind—
Among the false he only had been true—
And much we loved this man of single mind,
And ever while he lived to him were kind.
He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad;
But to its kindred still the spirit clings,
And therefore was his soul for ever sad;
Nor other wish nor joy the lone one had,
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep
That rolled between him and his native home;
And when he thought none marked him, he would weep,
Or sing this song of wo[e] which still our maidens keep:
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad;
But to its kindred still the spirit clings,
And therefore was his soul for ever sad;
Nor other wish nor joy the lone one had,
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep
That rolled between him and his native home;
And when he thought none marked him, he would weep,
Or sing this song of wo[e] which still our maidens keep:
LAMENT OF THE CAPTIVE
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed;
As if she wept such waste to see—
But none shall drop a tear for me!
That opens to the morning sky,
And, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed;
As if she wept such waste to see—
But none shall drop a tear for me!
107
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail—its date is brief—
Restless, and soon to pass away:
Yet, when that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail—its date is brief—
Restless, and soon to pass away:
Yet, when that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print, which feet
Have left on TAMPA's desert strand.
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand:
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall thus lament for me!
Have left on TAMPA's desert strand.
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand:
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall thus lament for me!
| [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde | |