The weary wanderer may roam
To seek for bliss in change of scene;
Yet still the loved idea of home,
And of the days he there has seen,
Pursue him with a fond regret,
Like rays from suns that long have set.
"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,
"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,
That fill and gratify the heart.
No! 'tis affection's tender lore--
The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,
When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.
What though on classic ground we tread,
What though we breathe a genial air--
Can these restore the bliss that's fled?
Is not remembrance ever there?
Can any soil protect from grief,
Or any air breathe soft relief?
No! the sick soul, that wounded flies
From all its early thoughts held dear,
Will more some gleam of memory prize,
That draws the long-lost treasure near;
And warmly presses to its breast
The very thought that mars its rest.
Some mossy stone, some torrent rude,
Some moor unknown to worldly ken,
Some weeping birches, fragrant wood,
Or some wild roebuck's fern-clad glen;--
Yes! these his aching heart delight,
These bring his country to his sight.
Ere the song was ended Lord Lindore had sauntered away to the
billiard-room, singing, "Oh! Jiove Omnipotente!" and seemingly quite
unconscious that any attentions were due from him in return.
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