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THE EXILE'S DIRGE.
93
"Brother!" (so the chant was sung
In the slumberer's native tongue,)
"Friend and brother! not for thee
Shall the sound of weeping be:—
Long the Exile's woe hath lain
On thy life a withering chain;
Music from thine own blue streams,
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams;
Voices from thy country's vines,
Met thee 'midst the alien pines,
And thy true heart died away;
And thy spirit would not stay."
So swell'd the chant; and the deep wind's moan
Seem'd through the cedars to murmur—"Gone!"
"Brother! by the rolling Rhine,
Stands the home that once was thine—
Brother! now thy dwelling lies
Where the Indian arrow flies!
