The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Expatriated
The Expatriated.
No bird is singing
In cloud or on tree,
No eye is beaming
Glad welcome to me;
The forest is tuneless;
Its brown leaves fast fall—
Changed and withered, they fleet
Like hollow friends all.
No door is thrown open,
No banquet is spread;
No hand smoothes the pillow
For the Wanderer's head;
But the eye of distrust
Sternly measures his way,
And glad are the cold lips
That wish him—good day!
Good day!—I am grateful
For such gentle prayer,
Though scant be the cost
Of that morsel of air.
Will it clothe, will it feed me,
Or rest my worn frame?
Good day! wholesome diet,
A proud heart to tame.
Now the sun dusks his glories
Below the blue sea,
And no star its splendor
Deems worthy of me;
The path I must travel,
Grows dark as my fate,
And nature, like man, can
Wax savage in hate.
My country! my country!
Though step-dame thou be,
Yet my heart, in its anguish,
Cleaves fondly to thee;
Still in fancy it lingers
By mountain and stream,
And thy name is the spirit
That rules its wild dream.
This heart loved thee truly,—
And O! it bled free,
When it led on to glory
Thy proud chivalry;
And O! it gained much from
Thy prodigal hand,—
The freedom to break in
The stranger's cold land!