Page:Felicia Hemans in The Juvenile Forget Me Not 1835.pdf/3

    Haste! to his lov'd, his distant land,
        On your light wings the exile bear;
    To feel once more his heart expand,
        In his own mountain-air,—
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet.

    But oh! with fancy's brightest ray,
        Kind dreams! the bard's repose illume;
    Bid forms of heaven around him play,
        And bowers of Eden bloom!
He needs those glimpses of his native skies,
To light him on through life's realities.

    No voice is on the air of night,
        Through folded leaves no murmurs creep;
    Nor star nor moonbeam's dewy light
        Falls on the brow of sleep:
Descend, oh visions! from aërial bowers,
Dim, silent, solemn, are your chosen hours.