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Which youthful Fancy upward threw,
While gazing on thy cold, pale brow!
But this is not a kindred land,
Nor this the old familiar stream;
And these are not the friends of youth—
0 heartless, loveless, seems this strand—
Its people lack the kindly ruth,
The soother of life's turbid dream!
Away regret! Here must I die,
Remote from all my soul held dear—
My grave, upon an alien shore,
Will ne'er attract the passer-by
The lonely sleeper to deplore—
No flower will grace, the stranger's bier!
Winds of the melancholy night,
Begin your solemn dirge and bland!
The giant clouds are gathering fast,
The fearful moon withdraws her light—-
In mournful visions of the past,
Again I'll seek my native land!
