miscellaneous poems.
95
The breeze that passeth o'er my brow
Perchance but late hath passed o'er thine;
Oh! could it bear one tone
To cheer an Exile's weary lot,
Breathing, belov'd, and unforgot,
I'm thine, and thine alone.
Perchance but late hath passed o'er thine;
Oh! could it bear one tone
To cheer an Exile's weary lot,
Breathing, belov'd, and unforgot,
I'm thine, and thine alone.
Toil would be sweet, with that dear voice
To sooth me, heedless—though the storm
Were bursting o'er my head;
Those words, like music from afar,
Or light, shed from hope's guiding star,
Would speak of days long fled.
To sooth me, heedless—though the storm
Were bursting o'er my head;
Those words, like music from afar,
Or light, shed from hope's guiding star,
Would speak of days long fled.
Ah! no! of home nor joy it speaks;—
The cold blast chills my fainting form,
The Exile's dream hath past!
Deserted—sad—with failing breath,
He asks one boon alone—come death,
Thou true friend and the last.
The cold blast chills my fainting form,
The Exile's dream hath past!
Deserted—sad—with failing breath,
He asks one boon alone—come death,
Thou true friend and the last.
