RETURN OF THE EXILE.
Oppress'd with wandering round this world of care,
Homeward I turn'd, but ah!—what home was there?—
The simple cottage where my childhood grew,
The verdant tree that screen'd it from the view,
The clustering vine that climb'd the broken wall,
Reft by the hand of Time had moulder'd,—all.
No sound was heard, where erst the joyous peal
Of infant laughter stopp'd the matron's wheel,
No motion left,—save where on earth reclined
Mid mouldering stones the slimy adder twined,—
"My brother worm,—all hail!"—I frantic said,
Call'd earth my mother, and the dust my bed.—
Roused from the deadening trance, I saw distrest,
The green corn waving o'er my father's breast,
While o'er her head, who cheer'd my every pain,
Rank ivy spread, the heedless traveller's bane.—
—Starting, I rush'd, this fearful scene to shun,
"Not one remains!—Oh God!—thy will be done!"—
Hoarse scream'd the nightly owl—and through the tree
Moan'd the deep blast,—but who shall weep for me?