295
The Wanderer.
No face I look upon doth greet me
With smile that generous welcome lends;
No ready hand, with cheerful glow,
Is now stretched out, all glad, to meet me:
A chill distrust on every brow,
Assures me I have here no friends!
I miss the music of home voices,
The rushing of the mountain flood,
My country's birds that blithely sung
In woodlands where green May rejoices,
Discoursing love when life was young,
And mirthful ever was my mood.
The breezes soft that fan my cheek,
The bower that shades the sun from me,
The sky that spans this Southern shore,
Do all a different language speak
From breeze and bower I loved of yore.
And sky that spans my own countree.
