Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/17



"Thine own is the choice to hail once more    The soil of thy father's birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er,     Forgotten in foreign earth."

"Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise    In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies,     There 's a brighter clime above!"

The bard hath paused—for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain:

"Are there none within thy father's hall,    Far o'er the wide blue main, Young Christain! left to deplore thy fall.     With sorrow deep and vain?

There are hearts that have loved me through the past, With holy love and true; There are eyes, whose tears were streaming fast, When I bade my home adieu.

Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier Than the apostate's living stain; There 's a land where those who loved when here, Shall meet to love again."