The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey Collected Edition |
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“HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE MIND!”
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 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
“HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE MIND!”
AN EXILE'S SONG.
“When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there.”
In a moment I seem to be there.”
That flower, that flower! Oh, pluck that flower for me!
There, in the running stream,
Its silvery clusters gleam:
Oh! give it me!
The same! the very same! I knew it well,
Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower,
That sight of thee should waken up this hour
Thoughts more than tongue can tell!
There, in the running stream,
Its silvery clusters gleam:
Oh! give it me!
The same! the very same! I knew it well,
Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower,
That sight of thee should waken up this hour
Thoughts more than tongue can tell!
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A moment since, and I was calm and cold—
Cold as this world to me,
With all its pageantry,
Grown stale and old.
Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein
Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow,
Like youth and hope rekindling—ebbing now
To the full heart again:
Cold as this world to me,
With all its pageantry,
Grown stale and old.
Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein
Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow,
Like youth and hope rekindling—ebbing now
To the full heart again:
Leaving a paler cheek—a glistening eye
With watery gaze fixed fast
On visions of the past;
Oh! where am I?
At home, at home again in mine own land:
Its mountain streams are murmuring in mine ear,
And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear.
There—there the loving band.
With watery gaze fixed fast
On visions of the past;
Oh! where am I?
At home, at home again in mine own land:
Its mountain streams are murmuring in mine ear,
And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear.
There—there the loving band.
Mine own long lost!—Oh! take the weary one
To weep on some dear breast
This agony to rest—
On thine, my son!
Thou answerest not—none answer me—that cry
Was from mine own sad heart; and they are gone—
And at my feet the little brook flows on
Tranquilly—tranquilly.
To weep on some dear breast
This agony to rest—
On thine, my son!
Thou answerest not—none answer me—that cry
Was from mine own sad heart; and they are gone—
And at my feet the little brook flows on
Tranquilly—tranquilly.
No mountain streamlet of my native land;
Yet doth its voice to me
Sound sweet and soothingly;
And in mine hand,
Of those pale flowers, now gemmed with tears, I hold
Henceforth to memory sacred:—from this hour
That they've awakened with such wondrous power,
Dreams of the days of old.
Yet doth its voice to me
Sound sweet and soothingly;
And in mine hand,
Of those pale flowers, now gemmed with tears, I hold
Henceforth to memory sacred:—from this hour
That they've awakened with such wondrous power,
Dreams of the days of old.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |