Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/159

Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing
Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these
Thou hast no sympathies!—And thou, my Zamor,
Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this,
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not
A goodly heritage?

Zamor.The land is fair:
But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade
His tents are scattered, and his camels rest;
And therefore is he sad!

Sebast.Thou must not pine
With that sick yearning of the impatient heart,
Which makes the exile's life one fevered dream
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away,
And faces wearing the familiar hues,
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known