382 SIGHT OP NATIVE LAND.
Who the bitter tear have shed O er the bosom of the dead ? Who beneath the sable pall Have the poet s lyre let fall ? Who, that won a nation s trust, Sleep in silence and in dust ? While with faint and trembling fires, Fearfully my heart inquires, Hears it not an answer swell, " God hath ordered, all is well."
Home ! my home ! though earth and Veil thee from my longing eye, Still though envious leagues remain Ere thy vine-clad porch I gain, Lightest leaf that wooed the gale, Frailest plant with petals pale, That beside thy threshold grew, Ne er have faded from my view ; On my cheek, mid cloud and storm, Still thy parting kiss was warm ; O er my dreams thine accents free Stole like angel melody ; Little footsteps, light as wings, Hands that swept the tuneful strings, Lips that touched with filial flame, Syllabled a mother s name, Watch and ward for thee have kept Marshalled round me while I slept ; And when loftier mansions prest Countless pleasures on their guest,