Fordham, Mary Weston
|THE EXILE'S REVERIE.|
'Twas sunset's hour, the glorious day
Had in its beauty passed away;
The sun had bathed in golden dyes
This Southern land of sunny skies;
And crimson clouds, like birds of wing,
Did o'er the earth their radiance fling;
While zephyrs sang amid the trees,
And song-birds warbled to the breeze;
For Spring, just bursting into birth,
Had come once more to gladden earth.
Near Pensacola's margin, lay,
Laved by its never ceasing spray,
The exile, from his native land
The dweller on a foreign strand.
And as he lay kind thoughts of home
Like visions of the past did come;
And mem'ry's mirror pictured clear
The starlight of his boyhood there;
The hopes that clustered round his brow,
The shrine at which he loved to bow.
He mused aloud, oh! Italy!
Land of the chivalric, the free!
Bruce may of Scotland tune his lyre,
But thee alone, can'st me inspire.
Birthplace of beauty! never more
Shall I behold thy vine-clad shore;
The sward where I in childhood play'd--
The haunts deep in the forest shade--
The place where, mould'ring in decay,
The ashes of a sire lay.
Why did I leave thee? As spring flowers
Return no more through summer hours
When once they blossom, bear and die,
No more will bloom neath sultry sky;
So heart of man when hopes have fled,
And love lies buried with the dead,
No second spring time sends one ray
To cheer his path through life's dark day;
Hope's blossoms like the early dew
Once passed away, naught can renew.
Still I live on, and oft, at eve
My isolated cot I leave;
Thence to this lonely nook I hie
To take a glance at days gone by.
Each blue wave hast'ning to its goal
(Fit type of the immortal soul)
In thrilling accents seems to say
Thou'rt nearing fast life's closing day;
Thou soon wilt reach thy better home,
The home where changes never come.