 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
196
THE EXILE.
I
I've passed through the nations unheeded, unknown;Though all looked upon me, none called me their own.
I shared not their laughter—they cared not my moan—
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
II
At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose,How happy I've thought, at the weary day's close,
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose;
But, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
III
Where hasten those clouds? to the land or the sea—Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me?
What matter to either where either shall flee?
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
IV
Those trees they are beauteous—those flowers they are fair;But no trees and no flowers of my country are there.
They speak not unto me—they heed not my care;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
197
V
That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain;But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain.
It reminds me of nothing—it murmurs in vain;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
VI
Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrowNo charm from the songs of my infancy borrow,
I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
VII
They've asked me, “Why weep you?” I've told them my woe—They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow.
No sympathy bound us; how could their tears flow?
For, sure the poor exile is always alone.
VIII
When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile,Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle,
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
IX
Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their mother,And these friends, like its roots, clasp and grow to each other;
But, none call me child, and none call me brother;
For, ah! the poor exile is ever alone.
198
X
Wives never clasp, and friends never smile,Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile;
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle,—
And so the poor exile is always alone.
XI
Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you—Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true.
Our country is Heaven—'twill welcome you, too;
And cherish the exile, no longer alone!
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |