 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
THE VOICE OF THE EXILE
Yes!
I have asked that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal; of the flowing streams
That lucid flow forever: of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb;—
We shall meet
Again, Clemanthe!—
Ion.
I have asked that dreadful question of the hills
That look eternal; of the flowing streams
That lucid flow forever: of the stars,
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit
Hath trod in glory: all were dumb;—
We shall meet
Again, Clemanthe!—
Ion.
Bring home the child—the child of love—
And let her cure my beating heart of pain!
Oh! let my hand reach forth the desert dove,
And bring her safely to my ark again!
For now my heart is breaking in my breast—
Bring home the turtle to her native nest!
And let her cure my beating heart of pain!
Oh! let my hand reach forth the desert dove,
And bring her safely to my ark again!
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Bring home the turtle to her native nest!
Bring home the child—the voice appeals
To thee, whose memory never more shall be
Bright with the sunshine that forever seals
The undimmed fountains of my soul for thee!
The reed that cannot stay the torrent's course,
Must die beneath the glory of its force!
To thee, whose memory never more shall be
Bright with the sunshine that forever seals
The undimmed fountains of my soul for thee!
The reed that cannot stay the torrent's course,
Must die beneath the glory of its force!
Bring home the child—the tuneful bird—
The April dove that cannot coo in vain—
Oh! bring her safely where she never heard
The soft sweet lyre she may not hear again!
Bring back the turtle to the heart that lies
A living remnant of our broken ties!
The April dove that cannot coo in vain—
Oh! bring her safely where she never heard
The soft sweet lyre she may not hear again!
Bring back the turtle to the heart that lies
A living remnant of our broken ties!
Bring home the child—here let her rest
As sunshine to the chaos of my heart!
For now it rolls within my darkened breast,
As earth before the veil was rent apart
That made the universe, around us seen,
Rush into life two brighter worlds between.
As sunshine to the chaos of my heart!
For now it rolls within my darkened breast,
As earth before the veil was rent apart
That made the universe, around us seen,
Rush into life two brighter worlds between.
Bring home the child—there is around
The heart that calls upon thy startled ear,
An untold music, whose eternal sound
Comes forth like wailings from that sepulchre,
Wherein is laid all that the heart loves most,
Of whose deep moan this music is the ghost!
The heart that calls upon thy startled ear,
An untold music, whose eternal sound
Comes forth like wailings from that sepulchre,
Wherein is laid all that the heart loves most,
Of whose deep moan this music is the ghost!
Bring home the child—there is no voice
To mortal ears like that unheeded tone,
Whose music makes the very heart rejoice,
And in the echo leaves it more alone!
A sound that gushes from my heart to be
A stream within thy soul's eternity!
To mortal ears like that unheeded tone,
Whose music makes the very heart rejoice,
And in the echo leaves it more alone!
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A stream within thy soul's eternity!
Bring home the child—the absent dove—
The wandering Pleiade to her sky again!
Oh! bring her safely unto so much love—
The sweetest heart that ever broke in vain!
And in the garden, watered with our tears,
Plant out the roses of our earlier years!
The wandering Pleiade to her sky again!
Oh! bring her safely unto so much love—
The sweetest heart that ever broke in vain!
And in the garden, watered with our tears,
Plant out the roses of our earlier years!
Bring home the child—the heart is broken
That nerved the accents of my harp unstrung!
The last sad word that ever shall be spoken,
Is dying now upon my faltering tongue!
Go forth, sad voice! another harp shall be
The untold music of thy witchery!
That nerved the accents of my harp unstrung!
The last sad word that ever shall be spoken,
Is dying now upon my faltering tongue!
Go forth, sad voice! another harp shall be
The untold music of thy witchery!
Bring home the child—no other shell
Shall sigh melodious unto thee again!
For that deep agony which bade me tell
My sorrows, is the last inviting strain
That over shall upon my harp-strings die,
While yon eternal sun shall roll on high!
Shall sigh melodious unto thee again!
For that deep agony which bade me tell
My sorrows, is the last inviting strain
That over shall upon my harp-strings die,
While yon eternal sun shall roll on high!
Bring home the child—yes, let her come
As leaps the roebuck on the hills at even!
Here let her lie upon my breast at home,
As rest the pinions of the dove in heaven!
Oh! let her voice upon my spirit break,
As break the ripples on the reedy lake.
As leaps the roebuck on the hills at even!
Here let her lie upon my breast at home,
As rest the pinions of the dove in heaven!
Oh! let her voice upon my spirit break,
As break the ripples on the reedy lake.
Bring home the child—the last sad chord
That ever shall be stricken now is strung!
For all that ever mortal felt or heard
Is dying now upon my faltering tongue!
The storm that wrecked my slindered barque shall be
The breeze that shall conduct my soul to thee!
That ever shall be stricken now is strung!
For all that ever mortal felt or heard
Is dying now upon my faltering tongue!
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The breeze that shall conduct my soul to thee!
Bring home the child—Oh! never more,
In this fond bosom, shall such sorrows roll!
The last dark wave that lashed affection's shore,
Is pausing now upon my weary soul!
The syren mistress of its tides shall be
A lamp hung out beyond eternity!
In this fond bosom, shall such sorrows roll!
The last dark wave that lashed affection's shore,
Is pausing now upon my weary soul!
The syren mistress of its tides shall be
A lamp hung out beyond eternity!
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |