Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/The Exile
THE EXILE.
Why memory recal the chearful hours,
The tranquil time that never can return;
When gaily wandering in my native bowers,
I once was smiling as the summer morn.
And why recal my early friendships dear,
Why lead my thoughts to fond illusions past:
They claim the plaintive tribute of a tear;
I weep for dreams of joy that fled so fast.
Ah! still will Fancy all the scenes revive,
The favorite scenes that charm'd my youthful breast;
She bids them now in softer colours live,
And paints the cottage of domestic rest.
When pleasure lighted up my sparkling eye,
And on swift pinions flew the social day;
Ah! then I pour'd the simple melody,
To hail the brilliance of the matin ray.
Ah! still retentive only to my woe,
Will memory trace the picture of my cot;
And while in vain the tears of sorrow flow,
I rove in fancy to the sacred spot:
There fragrant woodbines form'd a mantling bower;
And there I planted the luxuriant vine;
There love and friendship bless'd the festive hour,
While every rural happiness was mine.
Ah! thus will "sadly-pleasing" memory dwell
On all the hopes, the fond illusions o'er;
And still with touching power she loves to tell,
Of happy moments to return no more.