Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Dying Exile

by Hannah Flagg Gould

THE DYING EXILE.

Who will stand, when I shall pillow
 In the earth this aching head,
Pensive, by the drooping willow,
 O'er my cold and narrow bed?

There will be no tender mother,
 Aged sire, nor constant friend;
There will be no sister, brother,
 O'er my lonely grave to bend.

Strangers then will heedless bear me
 Where the stranger's dust must lie;
Yet, the offering none will spare me
 Of a tear, while thus I die.

They behold my life-strings sever
 At the conqueror's final blow;
But the heart that's breaking—never
 They its inward pangs shall know.

Come, ye whispering airs of heaven,
 Take my sighs, my last adieu
To the country whence I'm driven,
 To the friends to whom I 'm true!

Let them know I've ceased to languish;
 Tell them I am freed from pain;
That my bosom swelled with anguish
 Till its chords all snapped in twain.

Say, my last regrets were centred,
 All my fondness lingered there,
Till upon a home I entered
 Free from banishment and care;

That my glad, unburdened spirit
 Soared triumphantly at last;
That, a country I inherit
 Worth all sighs and anguish past.

Faith and hope, your strength is doubling!
 Soon that home will be possessed,
"Where the wicked cease from troubling,
 And the weary are at rest!"