THE EXILE’S FAREWELL.
Reading edition
———
BY W. H. RACEY.
———
My own, my native land, my happy home,
Where lie inurned the ashes of my sires,
Mournfully from your sacred scenes I roam,
While, in my heart, the light of joy expires!
Far from your broad lakes, and your sunlit bays,
Your forests vast and boundless flowery plains,
Stern fate commands, and scarce its power delays
Till this rude harp has closed its dying strains.
The wanderer leaves: but if perchance he sees,
When far away, a fairer face or form,
Or if at eve, far floating o’er the breeze,
Some swelling melody is sweetly borne,
The sight will bring the loved and distant near,
And he will deem the soil he treads his own;
The music falling on his wearied ear
Will waken thoughts of home in every tone.
The wanderer leaves: but if a closing day
Departs with brighter glories in the west,
If e’en a cloud in evening shades away,
Stainèd with brighter hues than all the rest,
Then will he pause, where’er his steps may be,
Oh father-land! and, as he heaves a sigh,
Dream that, far o’er a thousand leagues of sea,
He treads your soil, he views your twilight die.