Poems (Denver)/The Exile's Sigh

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE EXILE'S SIGH.

He knew, ere the sun should sink in the west,
His spirit would pass to its final rest;
Yet no shudder passed o'er the exile's frame,
No words of complaint from his pale lips came,
But a low and a deep-drawn sigh was heard,
Like the last sad note of a dying bird,
Or like the voice of the sighing breeze,
In moaning accents among the trees.

What meant that sigh, that sorrowing sigh,
That breath of a broken melody?
Was it a fear of the rayless gloom
And clay-cold walls of the voiceless tomb;
Of the still and shadowy land of death,
The snow-white mantle, and cypress wreath?—
No token of these that deathbed gave,
Nor the brow was calm, and the spirit brave.

Did it breathe farewell to the setting sun,
That sigh of the weary-hearted one?
A last farewell to the pleasant earth,
Its beautiful flowers and ceaseless mirth;
To the hue of the dark green forest-leaf,
The smile of joy and the tear of grief?
Or a wish for oblivion's quiet wave,
And a peaceful slumber within the grave?

Or did it speak of a lofty name,
Thus dying without its meed of fame?
An eagle soaring towards the sun,
But drooping before his flight was done?
Did thoughts like these rise with that breath,
To vanish before the conqueror, death?—
Ah, no! a regret more pure and high
Found a voice in the dying exile's sigh.

It spoke of a pleasant distant land,
Of the kindred heart and the clasping hand;
Of the leaf and flower by the zephyr stirred,
And the wind-wild notes of the forest-bird;
Of a lovely cottage beneath the hill,
And the mirthful sound of the mountain-rill;
Of childhood's laughter low and sweet,
And the humming music of merry feet.

Perchance there came with that last deep tone,
The mournful thoughts of a spirit lone;
And we might have seen, had the heart been read,
The whispered prayer for the lowly dead;
Of an honored father's distant grave,
And the soldier-death of a brother brave;
Of a gentle sister's tearful smile,
The living flower of a much-loved isle!

And it spoke of a mother's tireless love,
Of her daily prayers to the throne above;—
Oh, sweet is a mother's murmured tone
Of whispered love for a distant one!
It spoke of that voice of melody,
Of the soft fond glance of the loving eye,
Of the quiet smile and affection's tear
To the exile's heart in death more dear.

Alas, sweet mother! your hopes were bright,
But a shadow is crossing their path of light!
Alas for the gentle sister's smile!
Hope will no more with fair visions beguile;
But sorrow its gloom on their pathway spread,
Sighs for the living, and tears for the dead.
Alas! for the home and the happy hearth,
For sadness is resting where once was mirth!

A change comes over the exile's brow,
For death is claiming his victim now;
No more will sorrow her gloom impart,
To make a tomb of the living heart.
The whispered tone of that voice is still,
The bosom has felt its last deep thrill,
And cold and hard is the death-closed eye,
Once mild as the depths of a summer sky.

When the sun went down in the tranquil west,
His spirit had passed to its final rest;
Yet a tear will moisten reflection's eye,
As memory turns to the exile's sigh;
And drop, as she thinks of the kindred band,
And mourning hearts of a distant land;
Of the spirits pluming beyond the wave,
To hover above the exile's grave!