The Expatriated

No bird is singingIn cloud or on tree,No eye is beamingGlad welcome to me;The forest is tuneless;Its brown leaves fast fall—Changed and withered, they fleetLike hollow friends all.

No door is thrown open,No banquet is spread;No hand smoothes the pillowFor the Wanderer's head;But the eye of distrustSternly measures his way,And glad are the cold lipsThat wish him—good day!

Good day!—I am gratefulFor such gentle prayer,

Though scant be the costOf that morsel of air.Will it clothe, will it feed me,Or rest my worn frame?Good day! wholesome diet,A proud heart to tame.

Now the sun dusks his gloriesBelow the blue sea,And no star its splendorDeems worthy of me;The path I must travel,Grows dark as my fate,And nature, like man, canWax savage in hate.

My country! my country!Though step-dame thou be,Yet my heart, in its anguish,Cleaves fondly to thee;Still in fancy it lingersBy mountain and stream,And thy name is the spiritThat rules its wild dream.

This heart loved thee truly,—And O! it bled free,When it led on to gloryThy proud chivalry;And O! it gained much fromThy prodigal hand,—The freedom to break inThe stranger's cold land!