Poems (Osgood)/The Exile's Lament

by Frances Sargent Osgood

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

I am not happy here, mother!
 I pine to go to you;
I weary for your voice and smile,
 Your love—the food and true!

My English home is cold, mother,
 And dark and lonely too!
I never shall be happy here,—
 I pine to go to you!

Full many a simple melody
 I make of home and you;
But no one loves and sings the song
 As Lizzie used to do!

I've friends, who kindly welcome give,
 And whom I'll ne'er forget;
But they love others more than me,
 And I am not their pet!

In at my lattice laughs the sun,
 And plays about my feet;
I'd welcome it if you were here
 Its summer warmth to greet!

The sky ne'er seems so blue, mother,—
 So balmy soft the air!
And oh! the flowers are not so pure
 As those I used to wear!

My baby Ellen gaily plays,
 But none are here to note,
With partial praise, her winning ways,
 Or catch the gems that float—

The gems of thought that sparkle o'er
 Her mind's untroubled sea;
Then vanish in its depths before
 We well know what they be!

How oft, when lovelier than their wont
 Her cheeks' pure roses glow,
And fairer 'neath the sunlit hair
 Her veinèd temples show,

I want it watch'd by other eye,
 That face—so bright to me!
And sigh—" If mother now were by!"
 "If Lizzie could but see!"

Oh! my English home is cold, mother,
 And dark and lonely too!
never shall be happy here,—
 I pine to go to you!

I will not call it "home," mother,
 From those I love so far!—
That only can be home to me,
 Where you and Lizzie are.