Page:Scenes and Hymns of Life.pdf/185

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The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd, Still brings me back thine image—Oh! forlorn, Yet not forsaken, Ruth!—I see thee stand Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest band— Lone as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam, Fall'n in its weariness. Thy father land Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home, That finest, purest, which can recognize Home in affection's glance, for ever true Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue Those words, immortal in their deep Love's tone, "Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!"