Ruth

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d,
Still brings me back thine image--O 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 fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home--
That finest, purest, which can recognise
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!”