THE EXILE'S SIGH.
He knew, ere the sun should sink in the west,
His spirit would pass to its final rest;
Yet no shudder passed o'er the exile's frame,
No words of complaint from his pale lips came,
But a low and a deep-drawn sigh was heard,
Like the last sad note of a dying bird,
Or like the voice of the sighing breeze,
In moaning accents among the trees.
His spirit would pass to its final rest;
Yet no shudder passed o'er the exile's frame,
No words of complaint from his pale lips came,
But a low and a deep-drawn sigh was heard,
Like the last sad note of a dying bird,
Or like the voice of the sighing breeze,
In moaning accents among the trees.
What meant that sigh, that sorrowing sigh,
That breath of a broken melody?
Was it a fear of the rayless gloom
And clay-cold walls of the voiceless tomb;
Of the still and shadowy land of death,
The snow-white mantle, and cypress wreath?—
No token of these that deathbed gave,
Nor the brow was calm, and the spirit brave.
That breath of a broken melody?
Was it a fear of the rayless gloom
And clay-cold walls of the voiceless tomb;
Of the still and shadowy land of death,
The snow-white mantle, and cypress wreath?—
No token of these that deathbed gave,
Nor the brow was calm, and the spirit brave.
Did it breathe farewell to the setting sun,
That sigh of the weary-hearted one?
A last farewell to the pleasant earth,
Its beautiful flowers and ceaseless mirth;
That sigh of the weary-hearted one?
A last farewell to the pleasant earth,
Its beautiful flowers and ceaseless mirth;
