Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Ronald's Lament

Ronald's Lament.

Copyright. Contributed to Carpenter's "Penny Readings," vol. iii., and inserted in this collection by permission.

 

   "Oh! for a last look, before I die,   Of the sun that shines in my native sky!"

Hush! fair-haired stranger! the morning sunThe orient gates of the skies hath won;Darkness and clouds have fled afarBefore the wheels of his burnished car;Along the empyreal pavement borne,His steeds career through the arch of morn;And dewy gems he scatters around,Like diamonds glittering on the ground:Such beauty, such glory he never sent forth'Mid the mountains and tempests and clouds of the North!

   "Though the hills of my sires be dark and grey,   And the sun sheds forth a sober ray,   Though tempests across his path be borne,   He rises in beauty and laughs them to scorn;   Ah! dearer the hills where the grey mist reposes,   Than all these bright landscapes and gardens of roses.   Oh! for one breath of the breezes again,   That moan through the woods of mine own lovely glen!"

The breeze of the morning is rich with perfume,Stolen from the orange and citron bloom;The scent of the mango's balmy treeIt bears on its wing, and breathes o'er thee:Such odours as these were ne'er borne on the galeThat sighs 'mong the pines of thy desolate vale.

   "The heather that blooms on my native hills,   To me a balmier scent distils;   Than orange and myrtle more fragrant to me   Is the sweet-brier rose and the hawthorn tree   In the land of my nativity.    Oh, for a plunge in the crystal wave   Where my boyish limbs I was wont to lave!"

Clearly and brightly our ocean flows,In her bosom the gems of pearl repose;Her caverns of coral are lovelier farThan thy sea-beaten cliffs in the Northern star!

   "Though loudly and hoarsely the wild winds roar,   And rude be the rock of my native shore;   Though a thousand darksome tempests sweep   Along the brow of that angry deep,   The voice of the whirlwind would lull me to rest   In the hall of my sires on my mother's breast.   Oh! for a view of that surf-beaten strand—   For a last farewell to my native land!"

Hush, stranger! hush! and cast thine eyeWhere the tall palm rears his crest on high;Where the banyan and tamarind have woven a bower,That defies the sun in its fiercest hour!Behold, the fruit of the plantain tree,And the golden mango gorgeously,With the guava and pine in our gardens smile—There bloom no such fruits in thy lonely isle.And lo! the pagoda's towers are seenTo shoot aloft from its top of green:This palace is glorious to behold,Its chambers are sparkling with jewels and gold.Bright shines the mosque, with its gilded dome—Such scenes thou hast none in thy distant home!

   "Thy trees, and thy fruits, and thy shady bowers,   Thy mosques, thy palace, and all its towers—   What are they to the wanderer, who, wasted with pain,   Sighs for the home of his childhood in vain?   Oh! that this mosque were mine own village spire,   And the gorgeous palace the hall of my sire!   Oh! for the glance of a sister's eye,   And a mother's blessing ere I die!"

A hundred slaves attend their lord,And bow obsequious to his word:Each look, each nod, each motion scan,They mimic the breezes with waving fan;To cool thy brow our dark-haired daughtersHave robbed the fount of its clearest waters,Would thy sister so study thy wayward will,Or thy northern mother? Be still! be still!

   "Dearer a mother's sigh to me   Than all the breezes of Araby!   Sweeter to me a sister's tear   Than all the fountain^ of Neodemere!   Oh! for a glance of a sister's eye,   And a mother's blessing ere I die!"