Poems (Chitwood)/The Exile
THE EXILE.
Has the Spring-time come? for a gladsome bird
Was singing, half carol, and half in song:
It came to my ear like affection's word,
And in my heart it has lingered long.
This morn, as I looked through my iron grates,
I saw no clouds on the brightning sky,
As to the portals of morning's gates
The chariot-wheels of the sun drew nigh.
Was singing, half carol, and half in song:
It came to my ear like affection's word,
And in my heart it has lingered long.
This morn, as I looked through my iron grates,
I saw no clouds on the brightning sky,
As to the portals of morning's gates
The chariot-wheels of the sun drew nigh.
If it be Spring, how the fairy flowers
Are opening their petals silently:
How the birds are singing amid the bowers
Of my native land far over the sea!
How the wild wood rings; how the dancing rills
Are dashing, and flashing in rainbow light,
As, snake-like, wending around the hills,
They kiss the shores with their waves so bright!
Are opening their petals silently:
How the birds are singing amid the bowers
Of my native land far over the sea!
How the wild wood rings; how the dancing rills
Are dashing, and flashing in rainbow light,
As, snake-like, wending around the hills,
They kiss the shores with their waves so bright!
How I long once more to see the land,
The joyful, beautiful land of my birth,
Though those I loved of the household band,
Have all gone down to their mother earth;
Though every friend has, perchance, forgot
The dimmest lineament of my face;
Though none would mourn for the exile's lot,
Or none would sigh for his vacant place.
The joyful, beautiful land of my birth,
Though those I loved of the household band,
Have all gone down to their mother earth;
Though every friend has, perchance, forgot
The dimmest lineament of my face;
Though none would mourn for the exile's lot,
Or none would sigh for his vacant place.
Oh! let me think there is one who yet
Has thoughts, 'mid her gloomy hours, for me:
Though others forget me she can not forget,
Though I no more may her loved one be.
Perchance another has claimed the heart
Which once was mine in its every beat;
Perchance his presence has bid depart
Bach lingering echo of first love, sweet.
Has thoughts, 'mid her gloomy hours, for me:
Though others forget me she can not forget,
Though I no more may her loved one be.
Perchance another has claimed the heart
Which once was mine in its every beat;
Perchance his presence has bid depart
Bach lingering echo of first love, sweet.
Yet it can not be, Oh! it can not be;
And if another is by her side,
I know she still has some thought for me,
That time and absence can never divide.
I know that yet, like a shadow, steals
The beautiful dream of other days
Within her heart, and my name reveals
With love vows traced, 'mid the past's dim page.
And if another is by her side,
I know she still has some thought for me,
That time and absence can never divide.
I know that yet, like a shadow, steals
The beautiful dream of other days
Within her heart, and my name reveals
With love vows traced, 'mid the past's dim page.
I know she thinks of the summer day
When I girded on my sword and shield,
And gently forced love's ties away
For the desolate storm of the battle-field.
This comes like a dream o'er her waking hours,
And thoughts of the past, they can not sleep,
As the long crushed petals of" fragrant flowers
Will still, though withered, their fragrance keep.
When I girded on my sword and shield,
And gently forced love's ties away
For the desolate storm of the battle-field.
This comes like a dream o'er her waking hours,
And thoughts of the past, they can not sleep,
As the long crushed petals of" fragrant flowers
Will still, though withered, their fragrance keep.
The dream is over. The dream I traced
In the beautiful morning of dewy life;
Yet her sweet name can be ne'er effaced
By the tossing waves of the sea of strife:
And though I pine in a gloomy cell,
And slowly die by a captive's hand,
Yet a sea-shell echo will ever dwell
Within my heart, of my native land.
In the beautiful morning of dewy life;
Yet her sweet name can be ne'er effaced
By the tossing waves of the sea of strife:
And though I pine in a gloomy cell,
And slowly die by a captive's hand,
Yet a sea-shell echo will ever dwell
Within my heart, of my native land.