POEMS
By S. C. HALL, F.S.A.,
OF THE INNER TEMPLE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
[PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.]
THE EMIGRANT.
PART I.
He stood alone—and yet amid the crowd,
The noisy crowd that thronged the vessel's deck
Hailing with blessings, fervent, long, and loud,
The far off land, now dwindled to a speck.
Still, as it faded, and a cheer went round,
He stood alone—from all aloof—apart;
And, if his ear had caught the joyous sound,
There came no throb in echo from his heart.
Beside the helm he stood, still gazing back
To the red west, where the glad sun had set,
Yet more intently watching the foam-track
Of parted waters, mingling as they met:
Bare-headed there he stood—alone—alone—
Arms folded, eyes half closed, and lips compressed—
A tattered cloak around his limbs was thrown,
The fierce wind beating his half-naked breast.
Yet rich was he, rich in the world's true wealth,
—As there he stood, above the toning sea—
In the strong summer of his years and health,
Willing to labour, formed for labour, he,
As one who in his vigour might rejoice;
Yet, as the swift breeze bore the ship along,
A manly, but a sad and tremulous, voice,
Was heard to breathe these bitter thoughts in song.
Away!—the wind is from the shore—
O'er the chill waves, away, away!—
Even here we feel and dread once more
The power all weaker things obey,
And vainly strive to answer "Nay!"
Yet winds and waves will not deceive—
Nor gently speak the sounds that wrong;
If falsehood rests with those we leave,
To them let evil thoughts belong.
Away—away!—My native land!
The ocean hides thee from my sight;
Sad memories come, a fearful band
Of dreams that scare the moral night;
In vain I struggle with their might;
They speak in tones I once believed,
Of falsehood in the garb of truth—
Of trust betrayed, of hope deceived,
A breaking heart—grey hairs in youth.
Away!—a better land is near;
And, yet, I cannot say farewell
Without a sigh, without a tear,
For those—the few—that with thee dwell,
And bind me to thee as a spell:—
Away! for them we must not grieve,
Away, good ship, before the wind!
Alas! for one true heart we leave—
A thousand base remain behind!
Old England! wretched in thy age—
Art thou the England famed in song?
That, like a lion in thy rage,
Roused at the very sound of wrong—
Sheltered the weak, subdued the strong;
Aiding, protecting, far and near—
Sending, along the land and sea,
A name that despots heard with fear,
For 'twas the watchword of the free.
Alas! and are we English born,
That lone and outcast forth must go,
To seek some land less tempest-torn,
Where toil may reap what toil may sow!—
The master will not be the foe!
But man may earn and keep his own,
And chase the tax-wolf from his door!—
Where crimes like ours are all unknown—
The crimes of being young and poor!
Take, England, then, my parting lay!—
My native England—it must be
The last that I shall ever pay;
'Tis sad, and therefore meet for thee,
And comes a fitting gift from me.
If thou art blighted, I am banned—
Seared as dead leaves no longer green—
My heart is like my native land,
And is not what it once hath been!
