The Exile to his Country

How dimmed is all thy glory, and how dark the
shadow falls!

And wild the sorrow waileth thro' thy hamlets and
thy halls!

Thy banner burns no longer on the mountain and the
lea,
And O! the dead are blessed who thy suffering may
not see.

How are thy brave ones scattered on many an alien
strand!

Thy darlings leal and true to the dear old Mother-
land.

They have bound thee in the grave-clothes, but we
watch with tears and sighs,
Till Freedom comes like Christ, and thou like Lazarus
shalt rise.
Thy pale, pale face, my Country, yet shall flush with
ripening bloom,
As Nature's colour kindles when the breath of Spring
doth come.
O! come thou Spring of promise; mighty Hope, put
forth thy hand,
And build thy arch of triumph for the dear old
Motherland.

The Birds that follow Summer, they come and they
depart,
For the Land of my love, and the home of my heart:
And, like a wounded Bird, my spirit trembles in the
wind,
And flutters down! and they are gone, and I am left
behind!
O my Dovelets in the nest! O the spoiler's bloody
hand!
And I so far away from the dear old Motherland.

Sometimes when life is darkest, a glory bursts its
glooms,
As Lightning thro' the startled night, the face of
things illumes;
A sudden splendour smites me, and ere the thunders
roll,
I see thy face look radiant thro' the darkness of my
soul!
And thou art sitting at the feet of Freedom great and
grand,
Thy children happy in thy smile, thou dear old
Motherland.

O thou among the nations, for thy might shall yet be
themed,
Thy fatal curse of Beauty by Love's blessing all
redeemed!
The red wounds where they pierced thee, shall to scars
of glory turn,
And in thy tearful eyes the light of boundless life
shall burn!

The Exile To His Country. Ill
The heavens are filled with Martyrs, but the earth
still holds a band
Who will meet in battle yet for the dear old Mother-
land.

O! many are the gallant hearts will never answer
when
The clarion-cry shall call us up to the field again!
And many are the tears must fall, and prayers go up
to God,
But swift the vintage ripens, and the wine-press shall
be trod!
The Harvest reddens rich for death, the Reapers
clench the hand,
And Victory comes to claim his Bride, thou dear, dear
Motherland.