Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Dying Exile

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THE DYING EXILE.
Who will stand, when I shall pillow In the earth this aching head,Pensive, by the drooping willow, O'er my cold and narrow bed?
There will be no tender mother, Aged sire, nor constant friend;There will be no sister, brother, O'er my lonely grave to bend.
Strangers then will heedless bear me Where the stranger's dust must lie;Yet, the offering none will spare me Of a tear, while thus I die.
They behold my life-strings sever At the conqueror's final blow;But the heart that's breaking—never They its inward pangs shall know.
Come, ye whispering airs of heaven, Take my sighs, my last adieuTo the country whence I'm driven, To the friends to whom I 'm true!
Let them know I've ceased to languish; Tell them I am freed from pain;That my bosom swelled with anguish Till its chords all snapped in twain.
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Say, my last regrets were centred, All my fondness lingered there,Till upon a home I entered Free from banishment and care;
That my glad, unburdened spirit Soared triumphantly at last;That, a country I inherit Worth all sighs and anguish past.
Faith and hope, your strength is doubling! Soon that home will be possessed,"Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest!"
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