THE EXILE.
Reading edition
———
BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.
———
Weep for the dead! for him in silence sleeping,
O’er whose lone grave the wild winds coldly sweep;
Weep for the dead, yet make but little weeping,
He lies at peace, unbroken is his sleep.
His last fond look of love on thee was resting,
His hands last feeble pressure met thine own;
It was of thee he made his last requesting,
Fell on thy ear his last, sweet, lingering tone.
Weep that ye hear his steps no more returning,
That he in darkness and in stillness lies;
Make not for him a long and bitter mourning,
Calm is the slumber that has sealed his eyes.
But weep for him who far away has wandered,
Whose feet tread painfully some distant strand,
Who sad and long life’s dream has vainly pondered,
Who mourns, deep longing, for his native land.
Faint and afar his heavy burden bearing,
No smile, no word, no look from thee can cheer;
Once all his cares were lighter for thy sharing,
Once all his joys, for thee, were doubly dear.
Oh, weep for him! there is no consolation;
He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er;
Count the slow years with weary annotation,
The mocking years shall bring him back no more.
Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving,
Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers;
For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving,
The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers.
From all thy future him thou must dissever,
Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore;
His feet from that far land shall seek thee never,
He shall return no more—to thee no more.