Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1836.pdf/34



stands within the silent square, That square of state, of gloom; A heavy weight is on the air, Which hangs as o’er a tomb.

It is a tomb which wealth and rank Have built themselves around— The general sympathies have shrank Like flowers on high dry ground.

None heed the wandering boy who sings, An orphan though so young; None think how far the singer brings The songs which he has sung.

None cheer him with a kindly look, None with a kindly word; The singer’s little pride must brook To be unpraised, unheard.

At home, their sweet bird he was styled, And oft, when days were long, His mother called her favourite child, To sing her favourite song.

He wanders now through weary streets, Till cheek and eye are dim; How little sympathy he meets, For music or for him.

Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright His dark eyes fill with glee, Covered with blossoms snowy-white, He sees an orange tree.

No more the toil-worn face is pale, Nor faltering step is sad; He sees his distant native vale, He sees it, and is glad.

He sees the squirrel climb the pine, The doves fly through the dell, The purple clusters of the vine; He hears the vesper bell.