Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/311



down from the hills alone, Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan! I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing—where?

The sunshine round seems dim and cold, And flowers are pale, and life is old, And words fall soulless on my ear— —Oh! I am still a stranger here.

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own? Still sought for, long'd for, never known?