THE WANDERER FROM THE FOLD
How few, of all the hearts that
loved,
Are grieving for thee now;
And why should mine to-night
be moved
With such a sense of woe?
Too often thus, when left
alone,
Where none my thoughts can
see,
Comes back a word, a passing
tone
From thy strange history.
Sometimes I seem to see thee
rise,
A glorious child again;
All virtues beaming from
thine eyes
That ever honoured men:
Courage and truth, a generous
breast
Where sinless sunshine lay:
A being whose very presence
blest
Like gladsome summer-day.
O, fairly spread thy early
sail,
And fresh, and pure, and
free,
Was the first impulse of
the gale
Which urged life's wave
for thee!
Why did the pilot, too confiding,
Dream o'er that ocean's
foam,
And trust in Pleasure's
careless guiding
To bring his vessel home?
For well he knew what dangers
frowned,
What mists would gather,
dim;
What rocks and shelves,
and sands lay round
Between his port and him.
The very brightness of the
sun
The splendour of the main,
The wind which bore him
wildly on
Should not have warned in
vain.
An anxious gazer from the
shore--
I marked the whitening wave,
And wept above thy fate
the more
Because--I could not save.
It recks not now, when all
is over:
But yet my heart will be
A mourner still, though
friend and lover
Have both forgotten thee! |
