Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 097.djvu/234

222 Thy giant rivers, rolling to the main,

Shall I, alas! no more behold?

Shall I ne'er look on thy vast lakes again,

Nor stray 'midst thy imperial forests old?

Thy pathless mountains, towering to the skies,

Wild home of whirlwinds and of storms,

Within whose depths the fierce volcano lies.

Shall I alone in dreams behold their forms?

Thy rich savannas, and thy grassy vales,

In fancy only must I greet?

Thy murm'ring accents, soft as lovers' tales,

Oh! must I hear no more their music sweet?

Ye dark-eyed syrens of my native land,

Beauty like yours where shall I find?

Where forms so full of grace, where smiles so bland,

And glances that might strike the gazer blind?

No, lovely maidens of our Indian clime.

None other may with you compare!

I bid you, then, aidieu but for a time,

No chains but yours your wand'ring bard will wear.

My country, yes! I shall return to thee!

The plaint that I pour forth to-day

To songs of joyful triumph changed shall be,

When "welcome" to thy shores my heart shall say.

Adieu, thou gorgeous sun! whose floods of light

From skies intensely blue descend;

Adieu, ye glorious stars! gems, that by night

To yonder vault above your splendours lend.

Adieu, sweet moonbeams! brightly sparkling o'er

Yon ocean's clear translucent waves;

Alas! that ocean, to some distant shore

Must bear me from the coral strand it laves.

In quest of fickle Fortune I must roam,

America—far, far from thee!

Yet still Hope whispers that my childhood's home

These eyes, ere closed in death, again shall see!