Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/380

 They bring not health to exiled men— They light not up the home-bent eye; No, piece-meal wastes the way-worn frame That longs to tread its native glen— That trembles when it hears the name Of that land where its fathers lie!

The sun which shines seems not the sun That rose upon my native fields; Majestic rolls he on his way, A cloudless course hath he to run— But beams he with the kindly ray He to our Northern landscape yields?

The moon that trembles in these skies, Like to an argent mirror sheen— Ruling with mistless splendour here— Does she above the mountains rise, And smile upon the waters clear, As in my days of youth I've seen?

O beautiful and peerless light, That thou should'st seem unlovely now, That thou should'st fail to wake anew Those looks of heartfelt pure delight,