Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/268
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RONALD'S LAMENT.
Oh, for a plunge in the crystal wave
Where my boyish limbs I was wont to lave!"
Where my boyish limbs I was wont to lave!"
Clearly and brightly our ocean flows,
In her bosom the gems of pearl repose;
Her caverns of coral are lovelier far
Than thy sea-beaten cliffs in the Northern star!
In her bosom the gems of pearl repose;
Her caverns of coral are lovelier far
Than thy sea-beaten cliffs in the Northern star!
"Though loudly and hoarsely the wild winds roar,
And rude be the rock of my native shore;
Though a thousand darksome tempests sweep
Along the brow of that angry deep,
The voice of the whirlwind would lull me to rest
In the hall of my sires on my mother's breast.
Oh! for a view of that surf-beaten strand—
For a last farewell to my native land!"
And rude be the rock of my native shore;
Though a thousand darksome tempests sweep
Along the brow of that angry deep,
The voice of the whirlwind would lull me to rest
In the hall of my sires on my mother's breast.
Oh! for a view of that surf-beaten strand—
For a last farewell to my native land!"
Hush, stranger! hush! and cast thine eye
Where the tall palm rears his crest on high;
Where the banyan and tamarind have woven a bower,
That defies the sun in its fiercest hour!
Behold, the fruit of the plantain tree,
And the golden mango gorgeously,
With the guava and pine in our gardens smile—
There bloom no such fruits in thy lonely isle.
And lo! the pagoda's towers are seen
To shoot aloft from its top of green:
This palace is glorious to behold,
Its chambers are sparkling with jewels and gold.
Bright shines the mosque, with its gilded dome—
Such scenes thou hast none in thy distant home!
Where the tall palm rears his crest on high;
Where the banyan and tamarind have woven a bower,
That defies the sun in its fiercest hour!
Behold, the fruit of the plantain tree,
And the golden mango gorgeously,
With the guava and pine in our gardens smile—
There bloom no such fruits in thy lonely isle.
And lo! the pagoda's towers are seen
To shoot aloft from its top of green:
This palace is glorious to behold,
Its chambers are sparkling with jewels and gold.
Bright shines the mosque, with its gilded dome—
Such scenes thou hast none in thy distant home!
"Thy trees, and thy fruits, and thy shady bowers,
Thy mosques, thy palace, and all its towers—
What are they to the wanderer, who, wasted with pain,
Sighs for the home of his childhood in vain?
Oh! that this mosque were mine own village spire,
And the gorgeous palace the hall of my sire!
Oh! for the glance of a sister's eye,
And a mother's blessing ere I die!"
Thy mosques, thy palace, and all its towers—
What are they to the wanderer, who, wasted with pain,
Sighs for the home of his childhood in vain?
Oh! that this mosque were mine own village spire,
And the gorgeous palace the hall of my sire!
Oh! for the glance of a sister's eye,
And a mother's blessing ere I die!"
A hundred slaves attend their lord,
And bow obsequious to his word:
Each look, each nod, each motion scan,
They mimic the breezes with waving fan;
To cool thy brow our dark-haired daughters
Have robbed the fount of its clearest waters,
Would thy sister so study thy wayward will,
Or thy northern mother? Be still! be still!
And bow obsequious to his word:
Each look, each nod, each motion scan,
They mimic the breezes with waving fan;
To cool thy brow our dark-haired daughters
Have robbed the fount of its clearest waters,
Would thy sister so study thy wayward will,
Or thy northern mother? Be still! be still!