The Pilgrimage

O'er me are affliction's waters in their heaviest currents pour'd;
They have swept away all pleasure—every pleasure time had stor'd;
Slanderous, poisoning tongues have pierced me with their hideous calumnies,
Hence I hang my head in sorrow—hence my trackless miseries.

Mourn for me, ye gloomy forests—mourn for me, ye dew-hung trees—
Mourn for me, ye scattered roses—have ye witnessed griefs like these?
Wandering for the maid I cherish'd—vainly for that maid I roam;
'Twas for her I left my father's, mother's, brother's, sister's, home.

I must wander! heavy burthen is my heart! a weight like lead;
Here for me is no abiding—where shall I repose my head?
I have nought but foes around me—brother, friend, acquaintance, none;
They would fain betray the wanderer—fain would hear his dying groan.

But disease sits darkly on me, and I feel my strength decay;
Here I may not tarry longer—Pilgrim of the earth, away!
Come away! the steeds are waiting—I am ready to be gone:
Forward, forward on thy journey—time is calling—onward—on.