« VorigeDoorgaan »
" THE SONG OF TIIE SELF.EXILED."
“ Adieu, adieu ! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue ;
And shrieks the wild sea mew.
We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land-Good night!
“ A few short hours and He will rise
To give the morrow birth;
But not my mother earth.
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
“ Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong:
More merrily along."
“ Let winds be shrill, let waves roll bigli,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
But thee-and one above.
“ My father bless'd me servently,
Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."“ Enough, enough, my little lad !
Such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
• Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or shiver at the gale ?”
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
“ My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make ?"
Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
“ For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour ?
We late saw streaming o'er.
Nor perils gathering near ;
No thing that claims a tear.
" And now I 'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea : but why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
“ With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine ;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !
My native Land-Good Night!”
Fair clime! where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which, seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight. There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave : And if at times transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there ! For there—the Rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale,
The maid for whom his melody,
His thousand songs, are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose, that 's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languior of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill, changeless hrow,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!
Clime of the unforgotten brave !